It’s not like I don’t believe in something. I treasure the moment of my eyes coming open, seeing that I am still here, that collection of drugs of knowing something. And then realizing that, that it’s not what it’s supposed to be, knowing it’s a lie. I’m going to be dead, just that. A mantra of sorts. I wait for the next thing in fear, tense and in delight. Everything is now. And if not, in a bit. It will come again. And I will have it then. That’s what I tell myself again and again.
There has been a bit of hype around French author Michel Houellebecq. He’s been praised as the next Sartre/Camus! I suppose they mean that his prose are supposed to be bleak and existential and convey the mindset of people completely adrift. While there might be some truth to this in his desperate tone and voluminous scenes of alienated sex, the writing just doesn’t work. It’s more preachy (and repetitive) and nothing happens in the end. I made it through 2 1/2 books, hoping the next would be better than the last, but instead the opposite was the case. Platform was okay but still left me shrugging at the end.