Accepted with more or less reluctance, Houellebecq’s scintillating narrative career was revealed to be sustained on the basis of a conjugation of virulent Filipinos against these fluid and hypermodern times of mismanagement, consumption and banality, indictments of a humanity even more lost than his. Finkielkraut and more exhausted than the one described elementary particlesand provocations at will. Relegated to the background are his eccentric plots and unique and clueless characters, each intended to support his irreverent “critical apparatus” and a style that seems to try to go unnoticed while claiming his leading role, showing the reader his catalog of tongue-in-cheek , quotations, attempts at theory and literary criticism, sarcasm (even Hemingway is not spared The map and the territorythe valuable novel that Goncourt won caricatured Beigbeder and heralded “the general annihilation of the human species,” exercises in metafiction and self-awareness (“Writing hardly exonerates. It describes, delineates. It introduces a shade of coherence, an idea of Realism”; Expansion of the battlefield), ironic use of the cliché and other trinkets.
what the hell is destruction? It is about a future presidential campaign in France, with enigmatic global attacks related to symbols that are the most motivated link to Lovecraft because Houellebecq wrote about him, of a silent type (and shipwreck of the system, like almost all characters of the author of Platform) that she must explain, of family ties, of terrorism, of dreams, of death, of inevitable spirituality, and of almost everything divine and human. She lacks ambition and convention, and it’s not easy to see what she’s up to. It seems that the great informant is tired of the West’s weariness. Not writing, but writing according to the craft of writing. He is seen in a swamp which prevents him from advancing.
Yes, as Houellebecq points out as a character in his own novel The map and the territory“To write a novel you have to wait until everything becomes compact, irrefutable”, because a book is “like a block of concrete that gets stuck, and the author’s options for action are limited to being there and waiting destruction was born on the wrong foot and grew up in leaps and bounds, carried by the inertia of the plot, by the codes of the too many genres it crosses, and by certain hesitations in the course of the creative process, loss of direction and tiresome repetitions, and away from the Idea of a revealed novel preceding its writing. When the reader thinks they are faced with a mixture of genres, a display of hybridity, they are in fact faced with a case of renunciation of the genres with which the novel begins, a weak and delinquent thriller relaxed, pardon the oxymoron and a political story to the clef that loses interest for the foreign reader in favor of the existential genre that deals with the emotions that feed the private sphere in which it seems obvious that he feels comfortable because after all naturalness feels good. It is nothing but the weariness of so much politics, extremism, sex and esotericism, of so much fireworks with which he lights up the stormy social sky, that makes him choose the warm light of intimacy, and on the pages that are devoted to describing how he takes Paul Raison to family grief and the foibles of existence, advanced reading and when the compelling collective story gives way to the painful personal story, concentrates the best of an unsuccessful novel and is too often burdened by excess and the mundane and in which, for the For the first time, Houellebecq establishes an empathy with his protagonist that reveals that despite the appearance of an action novel, the author chooses a turn towards introspection, towards complacency in dealing with certain pains under the observation: Paul plunged into marital unhappiness and an urgent disease that relates to vulnerability and survival, its dur ch stroke-disabled father and his brothers and brothers-in-law disrupting a chimerical family peace. Flat characters and a burlesque point for a plot that, leading to love as a form of redemption, seems to confess in a low voice that the author is abandoning martial nihilism in favor of a reparative sentimentality that no longer allows himself to be governed wants bitterness because maybe he found a better way hoping to face the quest for happiness in his old age.
You too terrible children they have the right to mature, to tone down their sermons, and the authors, of course, to spoil their novels. And it is possible that it will be confirmed that Houellebecq is actually a clairvoyant, flamboyant sociologist and not vrai romantic, and that literature was always for him a means and not an end, so that when by repetition his aim of stirring up is obscured the weakness of his literature is illuminated. The plot is entangled, yes (and to the point where the novel is tied up), a collage With the scourges of our empty society, raised on the fall of values, misogyny is wielded not to stop provoking… everything is written and written without a break. And meanwhile, literature languishes, writing flees.
And now this monsieur Thomas?
Author: Michel Houellebecq.
Translation: Jaime Zulaika.
Editorial staff: Anagram, 2022.
Format: Softcover (605 pages. 24.90 euros), e-book (12.90 euros) and audio book (22.99 euros).
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