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Not reading many contemporary French novels, I am not entitled to say that Michel Houellebecq is the most interesting French novelist writing today, but he is certainly very brilliant, if in a somewhat limited way. His beam is narrow but very penetrating, like that of a laser, and his theme an important, indeed a vital one: namely the vacuity of modern life in the West, its lack of transcendence, lived as it is increasingly without religious or political belief, without a worthwhile creative culture, often without deep personal attachments, and without even a struggle for survival. Into what Salman Rushdie (a much lesser writer than Houellebecq) called “a God-shaped hole” has rushed the search for sensual pleasure which, however, no more than distracts for a short while.
Something more is needed, but Western man—at least Western man at a certain level of education, intelligence and material ease—has not found it. Houellebecq’s underlying nihilism implies that it is not there to be found. The result of this lack of transcendent purpose is self-destruction not merely on a personal, but on a population, scale. Technical sophistication has been accompanied, or so it often seems, by mass incompetence in the art of living. Houellebecq is the prophet, the chronicler, of this incompetence.
Even the ironic title of his latest novel, Sérotonine, is testimony to the brilliance of his diagnostic powers and his capacity to capture in a single word the civilizational malaise which is his unique subject. Serotonin, as by now every self-obsessed member of the middle classes must know, is a chemical in the brain that acts as a neurotransmitter to which is ascribed powers formerly ascribed to the Holy Ghost. All forms of undesired conduct or feeling are caused a deficit or surplus or malalignment of this chemical, so that in essence all human problems become ones of neurochemistry.
On this view, unhappiness is a technical problem for the doctor to solve rather than a cause for reflection and perhaps even for adjustment to the way one lives. I don’t know whether in France the word malheureux has been almost completely replaced by the word déprimée, but in English unhappy has almost been replaced by depressed. In my last years of medical practice, I must have encountered hundreds, perhaps thousands, of depressed people, or those who called themselves such, but the only unhappy person I met was a prisoner who wanted to be moved to another prison, no doubt for reasons of safety.
Houellebecq’s one-word title captures this phenomenon (a semantic shift as a handmaiden to medicalisation) with a concision rarely equalled. And indeed, he has remarkably sensitive antennae to the zeitgeist in general, though it must be admitted that he is most sensitive to those aspects of it that are absurd, unpleasant, or dispiriting rather than to any that are positive.
Houellebecq satirises what might be called the neurochemical view of life which is little better than superstition or urban myth. The protagonist and narrator of Sérotonine, an early-middle aged agronomist whose jobs, though rewarding enough financially, have always seemed to him unsatisfactory or pointless. He suffers from the unhappiness that results from his inability to form a long-lasting relationship with a woman, instead having a series of relationships which he sabotages by his impulsive sensation-seeking behaviour. This man goes to a doctor to obtain more of his Captorix, a fictional new serotonergic anti-depressant. The doctor, without enquiring into the circumstances of his life, says to him:
What’s important is to maintain the serotonin at the correct level–then you’ll be all right–but to lower the cortisol and perhaps raise the dopamine and the endorphins would be the ideal.
This is the kind of debased scientistic language that can be heard on conversations on any bus, and reminds me strongly of Peter D Kramer’s preposterous book, Listening to Prozac, which some years back persuaded the public that we are on the verge of understanding so much neurochemistry that we shall soon be able to design our own personalities by means of self-medication.
The novel lacks even the semblance of a plot, being more the fictional memoir of the chagrins of a man (one suspects) very much like the author himself. The protagonist, Florent-Claude (a ridiculous name that he hates) has been in love twice, but has both times ruined the relationship by a quick fling with a passing young woman. Although he has become dependent, at least psychologically, on his Captorix (incidentally, but not coincidentally, a very plausible name for a new drug), he recognises at the end of the book that he is the victim-participant of a culture in which monogamy is hardly to be expected. Speaking of the failure of his relationships, he says:
I could have made a woman happy… In fact, two; I have already told you which. Everything was obvious, extremely obvious, from the first; but we didn’t realise it. Had we surrendered to illusions of individual freedom, of the open life, the infinity of possibilities? That could be, these ideas were in the spirit of the times; we hadn’t formalised them, we hadn’t the desire to do so; we were content to conform to them, to allow ourselves to be destroyed by them.
For me the pleasure of reading Houellebecq is not in the plot, still less in the characterisation which is thin because the protagonist-narrator is so egotistical that he has little interest in anyone else (a trait which we are clearly intended to believe is widespread or even dominant in the modern world). It is rather in the mordant observations that Houellebecq makes on consumerism and its emptiness. Here, for example, Florent-Claude meets Yuku, his former Japanese girlfriend living in Paris, at an airport in Spain where he is temporarily living:
I knew her luggage very well, it was a famous brand that I had forgotten, Zadig and Voltaire or perhaps Pascal and Blaise, whose concept had been to reproduce on its material one of those Renaissance maps in which the landmass was represented very approximately, with a vintage legend reading something like ‘Here be tygers’, anyway it was chic luggage, its exclusivity reinforced by its lack of the little wheels that the vulgar Samsonite cases middle managers have, so it was necessary to wrestle with it, just like with the elegant trunks of the Victorian era.
He continues:
Like all the other countries of Western Europe, Spain was engaged on the mortal struggle to increase productivity and had suppressed all the unskilled jobs that formerly helped to make life a little less disagreeable, at the same time condemning the greater part of its population to mass unemployment. Luggage like this, whether it was Zadig and Voltaire or Pascal and Blaise, only had sense in a society in which porters still existed.
In this passage, with typical economy, Houellebecq skewers both the shallowness of a culture in which people obtain their sense of themselves from the visible labels or brands of their possessions, and the absurd but intractable contradictions of our political economy. He of course proposes no solution (perhaps there is none), but it is not the purpose of books such as his to propose solutions. It is enough if he opens our eyes to the problem.
His mordant observations make many people extremely uncomfortable, not because they are inaccurate, but because they are only too accurate and could conceivably lead to unpleasant conclusions, or at least thoughts. They therefore reject the whole: it is the easiest way to deny what one knows to be true. In the following passage, for example, the protagonist (or Houellebecq) describes the owner of a bar in Northern France who has just spent his time—of which there was much—in minutely reading the local newspaper:
The owner had finished Paris-Normandie [the local newspaper] and had launched on just as close a reading of France Football, it was a very thorough reading, such reading exists, I have known people like that who are not satisfied by reading just the headlines, the statements of Édouard Philippe [the current Prime Minister of France] or the amount of Neymar’s transfer fee [Neymar is a famous Brazilian footballer], but want to get the bottom of things; they are the foundation of enlightened opinion, the pillar of representative democracy.
Houellebecq runs an abattoir for sacred cows.
What can be said against his misanthropic, completely disabused view of the modern world? His sex scenes, which for those who have read several of his books now seem like a tic or the public confession of his own deepest fantasies, imply that sex is (and can be) nothing but the brief satisfaction of an urgent desire, as mechanical in its operation as that of a cement mixer. More importantly, it might be said that he concentrates only on the worst aspects of modernity, its spiritual emptiness for example, without acknowledgement of the ways in which life has improved. But this is like objecting to Gulliver’s Travels on the same grounds.
His work, not least Sérotonine, is filled with disgust, as was Swift’s: but it is the kind of disgust that can only emerge from deep disappointment, and one is not disappointed by what one does not care about. There is gallows humour on every page: the personage hanged being Western civilisation.
Yes, Elementarteilchen was an immediate sensation and a huge bestseller. 
« L’Église catholique, qui avait toujours regardé avec réticence la sexualité hors mariage, accueillit avec enthousiasme cette évolution vers le mariage d’amour, plus conforme à ses théories (« Homme et femme Il les créa »), plus propre à constituer un premier pas vers cette civilisation de la paix, de la fidélité et de l’amour qui constituait son but naturel. Le Parti communiste, seule force spirituelle susceptible d’être mise en regard de l’Église catholique pendant ces années, combattait pour des objectifs presque identiques. C’est donc avec une impatience unanime que les jeunes gens des années cinquante attendaient de tomber amoureux, d’autant que la désertification rurale, la disparition concomitante des communautés villageoises permettaient au choix du futur conjoint de s’effectuer dans un rayon presque illimité, en même temps qu’elles lui donnaient une importance extrême (c’est en septembre 1955 que fut lancée à Sarcelles la politique dite des « grands ensembles », traduction visuelle évidente d’une socialité réduite au cadre du noyau familial). C’est donc sans arbitraire que l’on peut caractériser les années cinquante, le début des années soixante comme un véritable âge d’or du sentiment amoureux – dont les chansons de Jean Ferrat, celles de Françoise Hardy dans sa première période peuvent encore aujourd’hui nous restituer l’image. »
The sexual marketplace
Islamization and traditional resurgence
Reading Houellebecq’s past comments and hearing Submission’s synopsis it would be forgivable to assume that he is a rabid Islamophobe whose thinking lacks all subtlety—an ignorant rabble-rouser. But nothing could be further from the truth. Here’s Adam Gopnik of the 
Islamophobic
Après un essai sur Lovecraft paru en 1991, auteur qui sur bien des points est le père spirituel de Houellebecq, il n’essuie que des refus des grandes maisons d’édition pour la publication de son premier roman qui paraîtra malgré tout trois ans plus tard. C’est grâce à son ami et écrivain respecté dans le milieu, Dominique Nogez, qu’il trouva refuge chez Maurice Nadeau qui bien que ne disposant pas d’un budget comm’ pharaonique jouissait d’une respectabilité notoire du fait du prestige de son créateur. A la manière d’un Zola il nous parle du monde du travail contemporain avec son lots de maux propres et marqueurs de notre époque. Ce ne sont plus les laminoirs mais l’enfer du « métro-boulot-dodo » où l’aliénation qui nous guette par le vide existentiel que le néolibéralisme génère. Déjà le décor est dressé tant sur le fond que sur la forme. Pour le fond, il s’inscrit comme un observateur et narrateur des travers de notre époque ; pour la forme, il rompt avec une certaine tradition littéraire française où le style et les envolées lyriques sont absentes : c’est clair, dépouillé, limpide… Pas d’artifices, pas de verbiage, une écriture blanche et lapidaire. On s’interroge encore sur ce choix, est-il incapable de prouesses stylistes comme par exemple Nabe (qui fut par le plus grand des hasards son voisin de palier alors qu’il était encore inconnu de tos) ou est-ce un postulat ? Tout critique littéraire est un jour taraudé par cette fameuse question… Est-ce le style qui fait l’homme ou l’homme qui fait le style ? Chose certaine, avec Houellebecq les deux ne font qu’un.
En 2005 sort La possibilité d’une île, avant sa parution on fit grand bruit de son transfert digne des pratiques du mercato où les champions se négocient en millions. Champion de la littérature incontestable qu’il est, pour plus d’un million d’euro il passera de l’écurie Flammarion à Fayard alors que le roman n’était même pas encore en chantier ! Comme toujours la sortie du livre sera accompagnée par son classique scandale, cette fois-ci ce sera son rapprochement avec Claude Vorilhon alias Raël suspecté avec sa secte de clonage « sous le manteau ». Il est vrai qu’au regard de la teneur du roman qui aborde entre autres le clonage, ce pouvait être ô combien de circonstance de nouer des liens avec le gourou… Il devra encore patienter pour le Goncourt mais récolte en guise de consolation le Prix Interallié. Trois ans plus tard, sort l’adaptation cinématographique dont il est le réalisateur mais n’a pas (et de loin) le succès du roman, enfin par reconnaissance lors de ses démêlées judiciaires passées, je ne vois pas d’autre raison, il associe son nom à celui de Bernard-Henri Lévy avec Ennemis Publics, donnant à lire leurs échanges. Le livre fera un flop, les invendus ayant été recyclés vraisemblablement… En 2009, lui qui s’est travesti en chanteur voit Iggy Pop sortir un album inspiré de La Possibilité d’une Ile. Consécration en soi quand on sait l’aura dont dispose celui que l’on surnomme « l’iguane ».
« La France résistera, dit-il. Les Français sauront résister, sans devoir étaler un héroïsme exceptionnel, sans même avoir besoin d’un sursaut collectif d’orgueil national.» «Keep calm and carry on, sois calme et va de l’avant, poursuit Houellebecq. Oui, nous ferons ainsi (même si – hélas – nous n’avons pas un Churchill pour guider le pays).» L’écrivain juge que si les Français sont plutôt «dociles» et se laissent gouverner facilement, «cela ne veut pas dire que ce sont des imbéciles». Leur défaut est un défaut de mémoire, d’où la nécessité de la leur rafraîchir.
Michel Houellebecq is one of the finest novelists living today. His most recent novel, Submission, is now out in English. It confirms my long-held suspicion that Houellebecq is a man of the Right, whether or not he admits it to us, or even to himself.
In the social realm, the patriarchal family is reestablished as the norm. Women are encouraged to choose families over careers. Sexual modesty in dress, behavior, advertising, and popular culture is rapidly adopted. Oh, and Muslim men are allowed up to four wives.
and Guénon’s 
and 
.)
Ce qu’a montré magistralement l’économiste et moraliste Bernard Maris dans son dernier livre, paru au même moment que son assassinat (on pense au roman Plateforme), c’est que le cœur des livres de Houellebecq c’est une protestation passionnée, vitale contre la domination de l’économie sur nos vies. 
, has attracted enormous attention. The book portrays the coming to power of an Islamist president in France in 2022 and has predictably been condemned as Islamophobic. The timing of the Charlie Hebdo massacres – a few disgruntled French-born Muslims murdering left-liberal cartoonists and Jews – could not have been better in terms of boosting sales. Indeed, Soumission is already that rarest of things: a succès européen (rather than our usual pan-European cultural fair of Hollywood blockbusters and degenerate Anglo pop music). Translated versions have already become instant best-sellers in Italy and Germany. Evidently, Houellebecq has struck a nerve going to the heart of contemporary European Man’s fears and aspirations.
This kind of argument, even if it is part of a dialectic, can only be very troubling for Identitarians, who incidentally are portrayed in the book as wanting “Race war now!” while we are still the overwhelming majority in mother Europa. This is not an irrational attitude if a war must occur: there is no question that we grow demographically weaker with every generation in the face of the fatal triad of sub-replacement fertility, displacement-level immigration, and miscegenation.
Tout le paradoxe de la France de 2022 telle que présentée par Houellebecq réside dans cet affrontement entre le Front national et la Fraternité musulmane, autrement dit entre l’islam et les identitaires. A priori diamétralement opposés, ces deux courants de pensée apparaissent pourtant comme similaires puisqu’ils revendiquent des valeurs comme l’enracinement et la famille. Tous deux entendent répondre au vide laissé par la parenthèse si courte ouverte en 1789, c’est-à-dire à cet « humanisme athée » plein « d’orgueil et d’arrogance » et caractérisé par « l’opposition entre le communisme – disons, la variante hard de l’humanisme – et la démocratie libérale – sa variante molle ». Tous deux entendent œuvrer au retour du spirituel. Le fascinant personnage de Rediger, professeur d’université ayant fréquenté les mouvements identitaires avant de se convertir à l’islam et de devenir finalement ministre, symbolise à lui seul cette aspiration incessante que ni le libéralisme, ni la démocratie, ni l’athéisme ne seront parvenus à éteindre. D’abord convaincu qu’une renaissance de la chrétienté était possible, il comprend finalement que « cette Europe qui était le sommet de la civilisation humaine s’est bel et bien suicidée, en l’espace de quelques décennies » en 1914. Qu’importe alors si le vecteur du renouveau spirituel ne se fait plus au nom des Évangiles mais du Coran. Pourvu que l’essentiel demeure.
The book (translated into English as Atomized) tells us about the life of famous biologist Michel Djersinski, who mysteriously disappears in the twenty-first century after having plotted the path to a new level of human consciousness. Djersinski’s world i
