Houellebecq Precisely The Wrong Way Round?

Since I “discovered” Michel Houellebecq in 2020, I found much of what he writes to be an anticipation of my own thinking, so that – just as with Schopenhauer ¬ – I seem to have reinvented the wheel. There are, however, exceptions. When a Houellebecq character says, “For me, love is nothing more than gratitude for the gift of pleasure”, I slam on the brakes. Perhaps because my youth was mostly about unrequited infatuation, perhaps because for all my atheism I retain a streak of loyalty to the idea of agape or caritas, or even perhaps because I am less narcissistic than he is, I find Houellebecq’s narrators to be repulsively obsessed with getting blow-jobs and astonishingly uninterested in female pleasure. If one is to be “grateful” for anything, I fancy, it should be for the mere existence of the Other.

Posted on July 15, 2021 at 18:08 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink
In: MONKEY BUSINESS, What Is This Thing Called Love?

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