What degenerations ......

Reading this novel Houellebecq m 'was very painful. The author in his intentions appears as a kind of elusive Janus. He plunges one hand into a brilliant literary universe, with a neat romantic montage, a chiseled style like a very beautiful letters goldsmith, in short a real pleasure for the reader who delights of some novelist's art.
The other side of this Janus is one of the book's background, its substance, its purpose.
And there is disappointment, almost disgust, at least through the pages, some irritation.
The argument rests on the parallel connection of the destinies of two half brothers supposed to represent both possible and important aspects of the degeneration of our contemporary societies. One is on scientific, rational, introverted, caricatural in his image science nerd, the other is the archetype of what we call today the bobo version huitarde sixty.
The meeting of these two Siamese visions of a disillusioned Western world is through a stay in a camp for teachers, where through, especially put to the sexual norms, the possibility of a release of this nihilism postmodern seems possible. Obviously the substrate of these questions - answers, is a very individualistic discourse, very narcissistic, very politicized clogging the About nauseum. Why? For Houellebecq probably no one misses no freedom for spill and reveling in these sometimes very silly evocations of bobo universe, crazy or sociological areas where good measure is that of an exacerbated individualism hidden behind nicknames tribes.
There is a side "Decline of the American Empire" in many sexual evocations of this novel. Sex is standardized, forced, amplified as absurd metaphor of an emancipation that does not happen, and land which the flickering happiness I should relax.
Overall a very well written book, but on a good pasty substance, convoluted, cartoonish at times, almost always forced.
Making human illusions and disillusions about by this was an issue. Sorry, but I much prefer the way in which other writers have done so well since Balzac until Kundera.