i gave myself a stomachache by eating an entire box of life cereal yesterday. i also gave myself a stomachache while drinking a giant martini while wearing sweatpants and petting a cat distractedly and at that point, i wondered legitimately, when did i turn into a working girl. it happens in half-moments, as i’ve said before. but anyway, yeah, you people leave me to my devices in hyde park and even the vestigial space where my dignity woudl reside if i have any, that space, it has evaporated as well.
Houellebecq is not quite saul bellow, i realize now that i finished Platform if only because saul bellow was able to restrain himself from putting a very graphic sex scene on every other page. it’s obviously a uberjoke — mostly the book seems to be concerned with how western civilization has collapsed down into western sexuality, which has collapsed further into different kinds of perversion. ultimately, this book is worth reading; it’s tempting to completely disregard sex scenes by just skimming until you see “i fell asleep next to her naked ass” or “i woke up and lit a cigarette” and resume the plot, but that undermines things a bit. what i’d call this is sex scenes as a style and not as a narrative element. seems to this country priest that most ‘literary’ practicioners circa 2005 use sex as a narrative event, like it’s something that battens a plot-sauce or intensifies characterization. i think that’s crap. in Platform sex instances become something else entirely — early on the book, sex scenes cease to be titillating, or even important to the plot (which is sort of abstract and slow-moving really… mostly a set-up to a big laugh at the end), and become these bricks bouncing off your head. not clear what to ascribe this to. either A) in france you have to have more sex scenes to sell books B) houellebecq is a serious wizard who broke shit down for me. it’s probably B+. anyway, michel houellebecq: you are a currently acclaimed french novelist, i read a book by you.