Whatever - erismanaire.com

Whatever
by Michel Houellebecq
The pervasive emptiness of human life is the main theme of this book. Thirty-year old narrator is a computer
engineer in France and he is living alone in his apartment. In his spare time, he writes about animals, smokes four
packs of cigarettes a day, has no friends, he has no sex life. While reading, even if I am already 49, I could feel the
narrator's loneliness. I have all those he lacks, I write book reviews and read a lot and all those keep my idle mind
busy when I am supposed to be relaxing. We know that evil thoughts normally lurk in one's idle mind.
I am an I.T. manager and have been in I.T. or related fields for most of my 30-year corporate life. I can say that I.T.
is oftentimes really a sad profession. You deal with a machine every hour of your working day. You make sure that
it runs and your users are happy. You make sure that the behavior of the program is predictable, efficient and
repetitive. You make sure that the reports the big shots in the company are accurate and always available at their
fingertips.
The narrator, in this first book by Michel Houllebecq, is an unnamed person does not find meaning in anything he
does. At 30, he is still a virgin and so he frequently masturbates along in his apartment. Probably because of this,
he finds women as pure sexual objects or object of his masturbatory fantasies. Probably because of this, he has
difficulty relating to them. One day, he and his co-worker Tisserand are sent to Rouen to train users on a software.
It this there when twists to their empty lives happen that eventually lead to fatal death to one of them.
The prevalent mood of the book is bleak and sad. There are some funny moments because I always find humor in
solitude, that's how weird I sometimes get. Houellebecq's writing is sparse and edgy. Sometimes, his thoughts go
everywhere, i.e., directionless but I supposed that he is just trying to reflect to his readers the nature of the
character.
This is my first Houellebecq and I am happy that I finally tried reading him. Definitely not my last.|The British
This is my first Houellebecq and I am happy that I finally tried reading him. Definitely not my last.|The British
translator or publisher should be beheaded for calling this book "Whatever" when its French title is something
amazing like "Extension of the Domain of the Struggle" -- if we otherwise lived in a total utopia, I'd say restoring
the English translation's title to something closer to the original would be a major issue in this year's elections.
This one seemed at first like it was written by someone other than the masterful dude who did "The Elementary
Particles" and "The Possibility of an Island". I blamed the translator at first, then Houellebecq's youth, and
considered it in the 2/3-star range: intemittently clever but otherwise "eh". But then the narrator goes to a club for
young singles and things take off - steam gathers, themes condense, the prose pushes ahead and doesn't just
muse about the connection between moving furniture (especially beds) and suicide. What's cool too is that many
of the themes are the same ones he develops in later books, but here he's a little more flatly vulgar or theoretical,
his tone/style shifts (occasionally exuberantly purple and then also a bit more spare/poetic at times too, more
regionally French). But then things really rise and end well in the 3/4-star range (nails the landing). Definitely worth
reading, and maybe even re-reading, considering it's 154 not-so-dense pages. Anyway, whatever: I'd like to
petition for a new translation by Gavin Bowd or Frank Wynne, someone who'd respect the original title and maybe
debritishify things a bit.|You have this friend who works in IT. He is rendered sick at the torturous formality and
bureaucratic inevitability of existence, and slaps you on the face twice before bursting into tears. You phone his
friend Tisserand who is unbearably ugly and hits on you twice, for help. You say: “You are so hideous, no woman
would go anywhere near you, you disgusting pustule of a man.” Tisserand breaks down in tears but comes back
with a brutal salvo: “You women are callous stiff planks who’re only out for yourselves!” Or words to that effect.
But your friend who works in IT is looking extremely peaky. He, naturally, has no problem getting laid (despite his
own physical shortcomings, i.e. he looks like Michel Houellebecq) but he does seem to be coming down with a
bad case of lifesickness. Clearly, traveling around France training people in IT packages is no sound basis for a life.
So your friend writes strange animal stories then checks himself into a psych ward. You don’t hear from him for a
while, for he is a gone man. A long gone man. (P.S. Worst cover and mistranslated title ever. Original: Extension du
domaine de la lutte).
Favourite passage:
“Writing brings scant relief. It retraces, it delimits. It lends a touch of coherence, the idea of a kind of realism. One
stumbles around in a cruel fog, but there is the odd pointer. Chaos is no more than a few feet away. A meagre
victory, in truth. What a contrast with the absolute, miraculous power of reading! An entire life spent reading
would have fulfilled my every desire- I already knew that at the age of seven. The texture of the world is painful,
inadequate- unalterable, or so it seems to me. Really, I believe that an entire life spent reading would have suited
me best. Such a life has not been granted me.” (p12)|Η κεντρική ιδέα του αναπτύσσεται σε δύο πυλώνες: τον
οικονομικό και τον σεξουαλικό φιλελευθερισμό, απο κει πηγάζουν τα δράματα όσων παρελαύνουν απο το
βιβλίο. Οι επιβληθέντες ρόλοι (στον άντρα, εστιάζει κατα κυριο λόγο),ο ανταγωνισμός, οι ηλίθιες συνεπαγωγές
(βγάζεις λεφτά--->winner, δε βγάζεις λεφτά --->loser), the looks, η σεξουαλική επιτυχία, βάλτα όλα στη σειρά να
δεις το επονείδιστο άχθος. Ο κυριος χαρακτήρας (πρωτοπρόσωπη αφήγηση) αρχικώς έχει ομοιότητες με τον
Μερσώ, σταδιακά όμως ειτε πειραματιζόμενος με έναν συνάδελφό του, είτε ενθυμούμενος την παλια
αγαπημένη του, απομακρύνεται απο αυτον (τον Μερσω), καθώς εκφράζει. Εκφράζει τα απωθημένααποθηκευμένα του.
Σε σχέση με τα άλλα δυο που έχω διαβάσει, εδώ η γραφη ειναι σαφώς πιο colloquial, χωρίς να απομακρυνεται
απο το δοκιμιακό ύφος του. Η πρωτοπρόσωπη γραφη μου ενισχύει την δι-αίσθηση οτι ειναι κάμποσο
αυτοβιογραφικό. Κάπου ξεπετιέται το παράλογο, κάπου ο υπαρξισμός, διαχυτος σε όλο το βιβλιο ενας
πραγματιστικός κυνισμός (Ντόινγκ!!). Και γι' αυτό μ' αρέσει αυτός ο τυπος.|Dunque.. leggendo le recensioni di
questo libro mi ero illusa non poco. Perché del protagonista dicono che sia cinico, spietato, compassionevole,
sensibile ma anche misantropo. E che è uno che sputa sentenze su tutto e tutti, che il contatto fisico con le altre
persone lo disgusta, che è depresso perché troppo sensibile.
Quindi.. visto che a me personaggi del genere di solito piacciono, mi sono proposta di acquistare questo libro, di
dargli fiducia.
Però.. c’è decisamente qualcosa che non torna: leggendolo mi sono accorta che lo scrittore avrebbe tanto voluto
che il suo personaggio fosse cinico, spietato, depresso e troppo sensibile. Avrebbe voluto, magari si è anche
studiato i sintomi del cinismo e della depressione su wikipedia. Ma per carità, non gli è riuscito per niente.
Però.. c’è decisamente qualcosa che non torna: leggendolo mi sono accorta che lo scrittore avrebbe tanto voluto
che il suo personaggio fosse cinico, spietato, depresso e troppo sensibile. Avrebbe voluto, magari si è anche
studiato i sintomi del cinismo e della depressione su wikipedia. Ma per carità, non gli è riuscito per niente.
In realtà, questo personaggio è un’accozzaglia di luoghi comuni, di false credenze, di stereotipi triti e ritriti tutti
mescolati assieme. Per farlo più originale, l'autore ha pensato di far scrivere al suo personaggio degli stralci di
novelle che hanno gli animali come protagonisti: insomma, sì, per far capire che anche l’uomo in fondo è un
animale e che segue le stesse dinamiche “sociali” delle altre bestie.
Ma di un banale... E non solo questo personaggio non ha volume, ma a seguirlo c’è costantemente l’ombra della
saccente e presuntuosa penna del suo creatore.
Non mi va neanche di spenderci troppe parole. Voglio solo dire una cosa che credo da un po’ di tempo. E cioè:
siccome il cinico sembra “fare figo”, c’è una gran massa di persone che mette insieme degli stereotipi talvolta
banalizzandoli, altre volte esasperandoli, con la speranza di venir fuori come autore dalla lingua tagliente o senza
peli sopra. Ma si sente che la cosa non è autentica! Si sente eccome!