Renaud Camus's book is unusual, by the beauty of the writing, as we only play more rarely, by its construction (no chapter, a sort of long monologue). His prose is exciting and rich. One can actually see that Mr. Camus gives no clear definition of what he calls the culture, but .. so what? Anyone who reads the book easy to understand that this culture in the classic sense, that which does not merge with all entertainment activities, the one that everything, absolutely everything is currently worth, recipes the tags on the walls of the suburbs. This book is a pamphlet with an analysis, searched, encrypted. There are no statistics, no figures, only the bitter despair of a grown man face the desolate moors that open before us.
