Life ending depressing ( )

The Good:
Beginning with his strengths, Houellebecq can write good prose even in translation. I noticed a pattern by which he produces the impression of succinctness/completion by placing the second descriptive sentence of a paragraph at its end: What would have been the second introductory detail closes the following paragraph,

“...Sometimes he cycles cross-country, pedaling as hard as he can, filling his lungs with a taste of the infinite. He does not know it yet, but the infinity of childhood is a brief one. The countryside flashes past.”

H. employs this twist many times, and I wouldn't call it a cheap trick.

The Bad:
Houellebecq doesn't write bad science fiction. He uses bad science to write bad fiction. Perhaps standards were different in the early aughts, but a modern reader can tell H. has no specialization or interest in science beyond its service in supporting his ideology. It is impossible to believe H.'s affected scientific tone with its repetitions and buzzwords, especially after having read the late work of DFW. (Compare this work with DFW's Mister Squishy, which allows the science to speak for itself and provide the negative space in which the story exists.)

The response to accusations of misogyny (and worse) remains that the author has somehow maintained a subtle form of ironic distance. We simply are too offended to provide an objective literary critique. Yet we all know that which is said half in jest is already more than truthful. It's incredibly naive to imagine that Houellebecq’s fans aren't enjoying precisely the 'misogynistic' aspects of the work they disavow in public. H.'s misogyny is well-tailored to the STEM youth of today, who appreciate any excuse to use 'science' to justify the social perspective they already possess. (Note: One finds a similar pattern within certain branches of ‘evo-psych’, which continues to gain popularity among reactionaries.)

Of course, it is possible to read work one disagrees with (and to enjoy it too!). Unfortunately that is not possible in this case, because such trappings as ‘prose’ and ‘style’ are more or less completely dissipated after the exposition. From then on it's a prolonged, unpleasant coitus until the epilogue. There, the pseudo-science makes a triumphant return, and we are made to believe that the ‘love’ portrayed in the novel, too archetypal and reactionary to be real, was something other than pure illusion. ( )

Like "Dance to the Music of Time" but with fewer pages and more existentialist-tinged sex. Supposedly one of the main characters does something of extreme scientific importance, and it is very philosophical, but this is barely touched on. Basically, "asshole older French guy looking for love" and "not-quite-so-much-an-asshole-older-French-guy-as-the-first-guy-but-still-an-asshole looking for love." ( )

Hugely ambitious, entertaining, squalid, dyspeptic, full of dour theatrics and grandiose hooey--I really enjoyed it. ( )

How could anyone in their right mind even draw parallels between Houllebecq and Céline or well, Bukowski? It's almost like comparing a golden ingot to a lauded clod of cow dung. Its abysmal rottenness will force its way through your eyes and mind as much as the unbearable reek of putrid dump, and the sheer lack of remarkable content this book has to offer will wring out disgust out of you as the vacuous ramblings of this untalented mess of an author unveil themselves to give you the full picture of this masterpiece of tediousness. This book feels more like a 300 pages long wanking session rather than a 3rd person novel, now you can imagine yourself the atrocity of waiting so long to reach a climax leaving you with the same emptiness of the first pages. The one thing I might salvage? The cover, I've never seen a cover being so honest with its reader, but I can safely say it depicts extremely well what this book goes on about: absolutely nothing. ( )