I bought myself a 720-page Houellebecq. I don’t know if I have intentions to actually read it. It caught my eye, in an offbeat store filled with knickknacks in the center of Granville, and I bought it because the world “desuet” appeared on the first page, and my French sister had just asked me to translate “desuet,” and all I could think of was “sepia-toned” until Google translate offered a more precise translation: outdated.
“This is a city with outdated charm,” she’d said.
When I think of Houellebecq, I think of high-end, intellectual, French literary society. The kind that meets at the back of famous cafés in Paris Saint Germain and lives and dies by the Prix Goncourt. The kind that embraced — and reluctantly rejected — writers like Gabriel Matzneff, when women with literary sensibilities of their own beat them at their own game. I think of Alice Kaplan’s French Lessons and Céline. This because I only know Houellebecq in headlines — inflammatory or exaggerated. Maybe? I’ve never taken the time to form a first-hand opinion. I know he was taken to court for the incitation of racial hatred and that his novel, Submission, was published on the same day as the terrorist attacks on Charlie Hebdo. I remember driving through the outskirts of Reims with Mathilde when the perquisition for the accused terrorists was happening in suburbs just a stone’s throw away. I know the case against Houellebecq was later dismissed.
When we got to Saint Malo last week, I saw a wine bar named “Terroiristes” and thought back to that night. It’s always tricky to find the right translation for “terroir.” It’s one of those words — like “home,” “awkward,” or “AOC” that have no foreign-language equivalent.
Yesterday, I took Houllebecq to the beach thinking I might read him — then discovered, with all the wind in Palavas-les-Flots — the book made for a convenient towel-weight, instead. My girlfriend, Mathilde, joined me on the sand after work. She opened her beach chair next to my staked-out spot adjacent the rocks and carried on with a seemingly endless phone call about a coworker’s every-other-Monday time-off request while the waves lapped against the shore. When she hung up, she helped me shake the sand out of my hair. She massaged my head in 30 seconds intervals — taking care to pick out as many grains as she possibly could — than insisted I shake, shake, shake.
Today, my Houllebecq is on life-support — the wind tore apart some of the glue that holds its binding, so that it no longer lays as flat as it should.
I’ll let you know what I think about his writing another day.
Though my suitcase is already heavy, and I might just leave him here.
Houellebecq is not a beach read
I've read the English version translations of The Elementary Particles, Platform, The Possibility of an Island, and Serotonin. Houellebecq certainly has lots of "issues" (e.g., misogyny, islamophobia), but there are moments of real brilliance and insight. And, as a reasonably well-read person, I find his style and voice unique, which is hard to achieve.
I skipped The Map and the Territory because the reviews said it was a radical departure from his earlier work, and suggested he was just trying to win the Prix Goncourt (he did).
If you've never read Houellebecq, I'd try The Elementary Particles. I recall it distilling most of his interesting ideas without belaboring his worst impulses. If you like that, definitely jump to The Possibility of an Island. I've only read it once, when I was 27, but I recall it being a masterpiece. Perhaps the 42-year-old version of me would disagree though. :-)
Thank you Alicia for this intriguing and evocative post!