"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘺, 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦."

Started this last month and claiming an end to it for this month. The long and the short of it was that I thought I could get into this, finish it, on all the planes, trains, and automobiles I rode in between Japan and Korea. But it was the existential dread constricting me from this book that could not push me to be interested in it. There's a dryness here. Long sentences. Humor sprinkled here and there. But nothing really severe to save itself from an end I already spoiled for myself.

If Houellebecq, from all the things I know about him as this is my first of his, has gone soft to claim love as resolution to a carcass of a mammoth, then I'm through! Give me Proust. Or hell give me a Russian classic. But this just doesn't seem worth the realist torture to move through.

And I think that's what it is. There's something realistically painful about being an adult this book holds that I'm not mature enough to push through it. It's about decay. Death of institution. Death of connections. And how do you save yourself from all of that? All explored here.

".. 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵.."

Fantastic translation and an omen of things to (maybe?) come. Quickly becoming one of my favorite books of the year, and looking forward to owning the hardcover.

Goodness me, this was awful. Drab, airless, interminably dull. Endlessly long (550 pages in my edition) for what it is. A political drama of sorts, except there is nothing dramatic about it; a kind of a detective novel about mysterious acts of terrorism striking Europe, except that it is written in a way that makes it impossible to care who does it or why. And then there is a small parade of mutilated relationships and familial dysfunction, but again the whole is so drenched in pointlessness and sedation, that I felt only indifference and boredom, rather than any pity or a sense of identification. It is only at the very end, the last 50 pages or so, that there is a bit of respite and redemption; the writing finally becomes alive, ironically—or intentionally—as it deals with contemplation of an inexorable, horrible decline and death.

Even Houllebecq’s usual provocations, his lashings-out against politeness and political correctness, are few and far between. Not that I ever set much store by them. Sure, there is some half-hearted misogyny, a bit of joyless pornography, some warmed-over social critique, but it all lands even flatter than before; at no point, did it manage to shake me out of boredom, to distract from waiting for this thing to end.

But then maybe the joke is on me? Maybe writing something as insipid and pointless is itself a clever literary provocation? I say, who cares. I do feel provoked in one way only—to anger for having wasted too much time on a book so undeserving of it.

— with thanks and apologies to Farrar, Straus and Giroux who made an ARC available via NetGalley

Michel Houllebecq is telling us in his inimitable way that France is in deep trouble. I write this in France on the day of the second round of the French elections. The far right has been allowed to foment racial tensions in rural areas. Issues ignored by Macron's Centrist project have played into the hands of the fascists. Houllebecq's protagonist, Paul, is the usual stand-in for the writer himself. Racist, misogynistic, loveless and unaware of his surroundings. And just like Macron, the nagging pain that Paul ignores through the book, is what leads to his annihilation.

ANNIHILATION marks Houellebecq's strongest examination of death in contemporary life—a fascination that threaded through some of his earlier works (most notably THE MAP AND THE TERRITORY) but that was largely eclipsed by his concern for sex. In that sense, the book feels like a maturation; I truly don't know what else Houellebecq could say about sex, and it's good that he seems to recognize this. This novel entwines the death of the individual with the death of the nation as it works through the dilemma of whether a natural death or an administered death is truly the most humane. The novel offers much to ponder, but its almost 600-page length feels baggy. None will wish this book longer. Indeed, some of the plot lines make sense from a certain distance, but taking a step back, the book might have been stronger if they had been removed. Still, Houellebecq's writing shows the vitality of his intellect and offers much to ponder.