some flowers on a dunghill

Mr. Beigbeder has talent, knows how to read and write, and does not lack humor. Caustic humor, black, cynical, and I appreciate that, I admit, made me burst out laughing more than once. The fact remains that this book, which describes well the despair which inevitably leads our consumerist and materialistic society unfortunately offers nothing about it. Wallowing complacently in the droppings of our decadent enough for him probably ideal. Moreover, it would have happened the flood of pornography that gushes like a geyser approximately every twenty pages, indicating that perhaps Mr. Beigbeder has not exceeded the age of big words. We, though; it no longer makes us laugh or blush. Did he imagine that we do not already know? This outpouring of garbage gives us unfortunately do no emotion erotic; but fortunately there are in the writings of other authors better readings ...