God, I'm a moron. I'm too stupid for words. But I'll spare you the story, I just wanted you all to know that I'm an idiot, and I deserve to be beaten senseless.
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So Dave lent me his copy of Michel Houellebecq's Platform, and after a few chapters, I'm not sure how I feel. The writing is pretty egotistical, and by that I mean (NB: The rest of this post is going to be a little disjointed because my train of thought keeps being run right off the fucking tracks by loud sex somewhere nearby. Nothing like a college dorm room. I should've gone to Jesuit school.) the writer keeps popping through the character... the character himself isn't too likable, typically French, withdrawn and speculative to the precipice of cynicism... I can't seem to find a revealing passage at the moment, and I'm not entirely sure that it isn't intentional. The main character shares a name, for instance, with the author, so I suspect that he may be examining the relationship between the author and the character...
Alright, seriously, I can't take this anymore.
I hear the syph is running rampant around here. Henry Miller called it "the syph," and I will do the same. I didn't actually hear that. I guess I'll start telling people that I did though.
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1 comment:
Stick with it. I had the same initial impression. After a while, though, Michel's patheticness becomes alternately endearing/hilarious and, especially when the narrative takes him to Thailand, the sex and the longing and the hatred for the very funny secondary characters makes everything fun to read, even if that inherent self-centerness never quite dissapates.
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