The first book I've read since re-discovering LSE's Shaw Library, of which I'm probably the only user right now (between the fact that term has ended that the fact that, well, nobody really reads anyway).
Having never read any Houellebecq I knew that I had to give him a chance at some point. I was biased before the start, knowing that he's an arrogant reactionary ass, and with this book I discovered that he is all that, but also a genius.
It takes a boundless ego to put oneself as a larger-than-life secondary character whose aura can be perceived across the entire novel like Darth Vader's presence can be felt on the Death Star, and I think he had the time of his life describing the aftermath of his own murder, but the book is surprisingly deep in its reflections on the ageing process, in its handling of love, and crucially in its poignant descriptions of the art world (and the opening with Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst is just so incredibly good).
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