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Michel Houellebecq

Michel Houellebecq Books

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Soumission

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Serotonin

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Whatever

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Platform

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Lanzarote

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Poemas

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“When you got right down to it, my dick was the one organ that hadn’t presented itself to my consciousness through pain, only pleasure. Modest but robust, it had always served me faithfully. Or, you could argue, I had served it – if so, its yoke had been easy. It never gave me orders. It sometimes encouraged me to get out more, but it encouraged me humbly, without bitterness or anger. This past evening, I knew, it had interceded on Myriam’s behalf. It had always enjoyed good relations with Myriam, Myriam had always treated it with affection and respect, and this had given me an enormous amount of pleasure. And sources of pleasure were hard to come by. In the end, my dick was all I had.”

“He was a kind of éminence grise, a political leader, in a clandestine movement. Everyone knows there are girls who go for that kind of thing. There are girls who go for Huysmanists, for that matter. I once met a girl -- a pretty, attractive girl -- who told me she fantasized about Jean-François Copé. It took me several days to get over it. Really, with girls today, all bets are off.”

“The metaphysical mutation that gave rise to materialism and modern science in turn spawned two great trends: rationalism and individualism. Huxley’s mistake was in having poorly evaluated the balance of power between these two. Specifically, he underestimated the growth of individualism brought about by an increased consciousness of death. Individualism gives rise to freedom, the sense of self, the need to distinguish oneself and to be superior to others. A rational society like the one he describes in Brave New World can defuse the struggle. Economic rivalry—a metaphor for mastery over space—has no more reason to exist in a society of plenty, where the economy is strictly regulated. Sexual rivalry—a metaphor for mastery over time through reproduction—has no more reason to exist in a society where the connection between sex and procreation has been broken. But Huxley forgets about individualism. He doesn’t understand that sex, even stripped of its link with reproduction, still exists—not as a pleasure principle, but as a form of narcissistic differentiation. The same is true of the desire for wealth. Why has the Swedish model of social democracy never triumphed over liberalism? Why has it never been applied to sexual satisfaction? Because the metaphysical mutation brought about by modern science leads to individuation, vanity, malice and desire. Any philosopher, not just Buddhist or Christian, but any philosopher worthy of the name, knows that, in itself, desire—unlike pleasure—is a source of suffering, pain and hatred.”

“A scarce, artificial and belated phenomenon, love can only blossom under certain mental conditions, rarely conjoined, and totally opposed to the freedom of morals which characterizes the modern era. Véronique had known too many discothèques, too many lovers; such a way of life impoverishes a human being, inflicting sometimes serious and always irreversible damage. Love as a kind of innocence and as a capacity for illusion, as an aptitude for epitomizing the whole of the other sex in a single loved being rarely resists a year of sexual immorality, and never two. In reality the successive sexual experiences accumulated during adolescence undermine and rapidly destroy all possibility of projection of an emotional and romantic sort; progressively, and in fact extremely quickly, one becomes as capable of love as an old slag. And so one leads, obviously, a slag’s life; in ageing one becomes less seductive, and on that account bitter. One is jealous of the young, and so one hates them. Condemned to remain unavowable, this hatred festers and becomes increasingly fervent; then it dies down and fades away, just as everything fades away. All that remains is resentment and disgust, sickness and the anticipation of death.”

“Оказалось, что я не способен жить ради самого себя, а ради кого еще я мог бы жить? Человечество меня не интересовало, более того, внушало мне отвращение, я вовсе не считал всех людей братьями, особенно если рассматривать достаточно узкий фрагмент человечества, состоящий, например, из моих соотечественников или бывших коллег. При этом, как ни досадно, я вынужден был признать этих людей себе подобными, и именно это сходство и побуждало меня избегать их; хорошо бы мне найти женщину, это было бы классическим и проверенным решением вопроса, женщина, разумеется, тоже человек, но все же она являет собой несколько иной тип человека и привносит в жизнь легкий аромат экзотики.”

“Adulthood is hell. In the face of such a trenchant position, “moralists” today will utter vague, opprobrious grumblings while waiting for a chance to strike with their obscene intimations. Perhaps Lovecraft actually could not become an adult; what is certain is that he did not want to. And given the values that govern the adult world, how can you argue with him? The reality principle, the pleasure principle, competitiveness, permanent challenges, sex and status—hardly reasons to rejoice. Lovecraft, for his part, knew he had nothing to do with this world. And at each turn he played a losing hand. In theory and in practice. He lost his childhood; he also lost his faith. The world sickened him and he saw no reason to believe that by looking at things better they might appear differently. He saw religions as so many sugar-coated illusions made obsolete by the progress of science. At times, when in an exceptionally good mood, he would speak of the enchanted circle of religious belief, but it was a circle from which he felt banished, anyway.”

“-I'd prefer to hear you speak, she said. -Read it all the same. 'Early on certain individuals experience the frightening impossibility of living by themselves; basically they cannot bear to see their own life before them, to see it in its entirety without areas of shadow, without substance. Their existence is I admit an exception to the laws of nature, not only because this fracture of basic maladjustment is produced outside of any genetic finality but also by dint of the excessive lucidity it presupposes, an obviously transcendent lucidity in relation to the perceptual schemas of ordinary existence. It is sometimes enough to place another individual before them, providing he is taken to be as pure, as transparent as they are themselves, for this insupportable fracture to resolve itself as a luminous, tense and permanent aspiration towards the absolutely inaccessible. Thus, while day after day a mirror only returns the same desperate image, two parallel mirrors elaborate and edify a clear and dense system which draws the human eye into an infinite, unbounded trajectory, infinite in its geometrical purity, beyond all suffering and beyond the world.' I raised my eyes, looked her way. She had a somewhat astonished air. Finally she came out with: `That's interesting, the mirror . . '. She must have read something in Freud, or in The Mickey Mouse Annual. In the last analysis she was doing what she could, she was kind. Plucking up courage, she added: -But I'd prefer that you spoke directly of your problems. Once again you're being too abstract.”

“Youth was the time for happiness, its only season; young people, leading a lazy, carefree life, partially occupied by scarcely absorbing studies, were able to devote themselves unlimitedly to the liberated exultation of their bodies. They could play, dance, love, and multiply their pleasures. They could leave a party, in the early hours of the morning, in the company of sexual partners they had chosen, and contemplate the dreary line of employees going to work. They were the salt of the earth, and everything was given to them, everything was permitted for them, everything was possible. Later on, having started a family, having entered the adult world, they would be introduced to worry, work, responsibility, and the difficulties of existence; they would have to pay taxes, submit themselves to administrative formalities while ceaselessly bearing witness--powerless and shame-filled--to the irreversible degradation of their own bodies, which would be slow at first, then increasingly rapid; above all, they would have to look after children, mortal enemies, in their own homes, they would have to pamper them, feed them, worry about their illnesses, provide the means for their education and their pleasure, and unlike in the world of animals, this would last not just for a season, they would remain slaves of their offspring always, the time of joy was well and truly over for them, they would have to continue to suffer until the end, in pain and with increasing health problems, until they were no longer good for anything and were definitively thrown into the rubbish heap, cumbersome and useless. In return, their children would not be at all grateful, on the contrary their efforts, however strenuous, would never be considered enough, they would, until the bitter end, be considered guilty because of the simple fact of being parents. From this sad life, marked by shame, all joy would be pitilessly banished. When they wanted to draw near to young people's bodies, they would be chased away, rejected, ridiculed, insulted, and, more and more often nowadays, imprisoned. The physical bodies of young people, the only desirable possession the world has ever produced, were reserved for the exclusive use of the young, and the fate of the old was to work and to suffer. This was the true meaning of solidarity between generations; it was a pure and simple holocaust of each generation in favor of the one that replaced it, a cruel, prolonged holocaust that brought with it no consolation, no comfort, nor any material or emotional compensation.”

“And yet you haven’t always wanted to die. You have had a life. There have been moments when you were having a life. Of course you don't remember too much about it; but there are photographs to prove it. This was probably happening round about the time of your adolescence, or just after. How great your appetite for life was, then! Existence seemed so rich in new possibilities. You might become a pop singer, go off to Venezuela. More surprising still, you have had a childhood. Observe, now, a child of seven, playing with his little soldiers on the living room carpet. I want you to observe him closely. Since the divorce he no longer has a father. Only rarely does he see his mother, who occupies an important post in a cosmetics firm. And yet he plays with his little soldiers and the interest he takes in these representations of the world and of war seems very keen. He already lacks a bit of affection, that's for sure, but what an air he has of being interested in the world!”

“Tanto quanto a literatura, a música pode determinar uma reviravolta, um transtorno emotivo, uma tristeza ou um êxtase absolutos; tanto quanto a literatura, a pintura pode gerar um deslumbramento, um olhar novo depositado sobre o mundo. Mas só a literatura pode dar essa sensação de contato com outro espírito humano, com a integralidade desse espírito, suas fraquezas e grandezas, suas limitações, suas mesquinharias, suas ideias fixas, suas crenças; com tudo o que o comove, o interessa, o excita ou o repugna. Só a literatura permite entrar em contato com o espírito de um morto, da maneira mais direta, mais completa e até mais profunda do que a conversa com um amigo — por mais profunda e duradoura que seja uma amizade, numa conversa nunca nos entregamos tão completamente como o fazemos diante de uma página em branco, dirigindo-nos a um destinatário desconhecido.”

“Ce n'est pas très difficile de travailler dans un bureau, il suffit d'être un peu méticuleux, de prendre des décisions rapidement, et de s'y tenir. J'avais vite compris qu'il n'est pas forcément nécessaire de prendre /la meilleur décision/, mais qu'il suffit, dans la plupart des cas, de prendre /une décision quelconque/, à condition de la prendre rapidement; enfin, si on travaille dans le secteur public.”

“Nie tworzy, nie przekształca. Interpretuje. To, co było ostateczne, czyni przejściowym; to, co było nieuniknione, czyni przypadkowym. Nadaje życiu nową interpretację – uboższą, bardziej sztuczną, napiętnowaną pewną sztywnością. Nie przynosi żadnego szczęścia ani prawdziwej ulgi, jej działanie polega na czym innym: zamieniając życie w ciąg formalności, pozwala skierować człowieka na inne tory. Pozwala ludziom żyć, a przynajmniej nie umierać – przez pewien czas.”

“The arrival in Paris, as grim as ever. The leprous façades of the Pont Cardinet flats, behind which one invariably imagines retired folk agonizing alongside their cat Poucette which is eating up half their pension with its Friskies. Those weird metal structures that indecently mount each other to form a grid of overhead wires. And the inevitable advertising hoardings flashing by, gaudy and repellent. ‘A gay and changing spectacle on the walls.’ Bullshit. Pure fucking bullshit.”

“Si le nourrisson humain, seul de tout le règne animal, manifeste immédiatement sa présence au monde par des hurlements de souffrance incessants, c'est bien entendu qu'il souffre de manière intolérable. {...) À tout observateur impartial en tout cas il apparaît que l'individu humain ne peut pas être heureux, qu'il n'est en aucune manière conçu pour le bonheur, et que sa seule destinée possible est de propager le malheur autour de lui en rendant l'existence des autres aussi intolérable que l'est la sienne propre - ses premières victimes étant généralement ses parents.”

“Olga was nice, Olga was nice and loving, Olga loved him, he repeated to himself with a growing sadness as he also realised that nothing would ever happen between them again, life sometimes offers you a chance he thought, but when you are too cowardly or too indecisive to seize it life takes the cards away; there is a moment for doing things and entering a possible happiness, and this moment lasts a few days, a few weeks or even a few months, but it only happens once and one time only, and if you want to return to it later it's quite simply impossible. There's no more place for enthusiasm, belief and faith, and there remains just gentle resignation, a sad and reciprocal pity, the useless but correct sensation that something could have happened, that you just simply showed yourself unworthy of this gift you had been offered.”

“I was lucky to meet you, yes.' 'Me too . . .' she said, looking me in the eyes. 'I was lucky too. The men I know are a disaster, not one of them believes in love; so they give you this big spiel about friendship, affection, a whole load of stuff that doesn't commit them to anything. I've got to the point where I can't stand the word 'friendship' any more, it makes me physically sick. Or there's the other lot, the ones who get married, who get hitched as early as possible and think about nothing but their careers afterwards. You obviously weren't one of those; but I also immediately sensed that you would never talk to me about friendship, that you would never be that vulgar. From the very beginning I hoped we would sleep together, that something important would happen; but it was possible that nothing would happen, in fact it was more than likely.' She stopped and sighed in irritation.”

“Os estudos universitários no campo das letras não levam, como se sabe, praticamente a nada, a não ser, para os estudantes mais dotados, a uma carreira de ensino universitário no campo das letras — em suma, temos a situação um tanto cômica de um sistema sem outro objetivo além de sua própria reprodução, acompanhado por uma taxa de não aproveitamento superior a noventa e cinco por cento. Esses estudos no entanto não são nocivos e podem até apresentar uma utilidade marginal. Uma moça que procure um emprego de vendedora na Céline ou na Hermès deverá naturalmente, e em primeiríssimo lugar, cuidar de sua aparência; mas uma graduação ou um mestrado em letras modernas poderá constituir um trunfo secundário que garanta ao patrão, na falta de competências mais aproveitáveis, uma certa agilidade intelectual que pressagie a possibilidade de uma evolução na carreira — a literatura, além do mais, vem desde sempre acompanhada de uma conotação positiva no ramo da indústria do luxo.”

“Il n'y a pas d'amour dans la liberté individuelle, dans l'indépendance, c'est tout simplement un mensonge, et l'un des plus grossiers qui puisse se concevoir; il n'y a d'amour que dans le désir d'anéantissement, de fusion, de disparition individuelle, dans une sorte comme on disait autrefois de sentiment océanique, dans quelque chose qui de toute façon était, au moins dans un futur proche, condamné.”

“Écoutant par hasard une émission culturelle à la télévision espagnole (c’était plus qu’un hasard d’ailleurs c’était un miracle, car les émissions culturelles sont rares à la télévision espagnole, les Espagnols n’aiment pas du tout les émissions culturelles, ni la culture en général, c’est un domaine qui leur est profondément hostile, on a parfois l’impression en parlant de culture qu’on leur fait une sorte d’offense personnelle), j’appris que les dernières paroles d’Emmanuel Kant, sur son lit de mort, avaient été : « C’est suffisant. »”

“La delincuencia invadía todo; cada vez era más frecuente que grupos de jóvenes atacaran a los viandantes en pleno día, en mitad de los centros comerciales. En cuanto a la vida nocturna, ni soñar con ella; hacía mucho tiempo que las mujeres no se atrevían a salir solas después de la puesta del sol. El integrismo islámico había adquirido proporciones alarmantes; después de Londres, Bruselas se había convertido ahora en un santuario terrorista. En las calles, en las plazas cada vez eran más numerosas las mujeres con velo.”

“Il existe certaines zones de la psyché humaine qui demeurent mal connues, parce qu'elles ont été peu explorées, parce que heureusement peu de gens se sont trouvés en situation d'avoir à le faire, et que ceux qui l'ont fait ont en général conservé trop peu de raison pour en produire une description acceptable. Ces zones ne peuvent guère être approchées que par l'emploi de formules paradoxales et même absurdes, dont l'expression 'espérer au-delà de toute espérance' est la seule qui me revienne réellement. Ce n'est pas similaire à la nuit, c'est bien pire ; et sans avoir personnellement connu cette expérience j'ai l'impression que même lorsqu'on plonge dans la vraie nuit, la nuit polaire, celle qui dure six mois consécutifs, demeure le concept ou le souvenir du soleil. J'étais entré dans une 'nuit sans fin', pourtant il demeurait, tout au fond de moi il demeurait quelque chose, bien moins qu'une espérance, disons une incertitude. On pourrait aussi dire que même lorsqu'on a personnellement perdu la partie, lorsqu'on a joué sa dernière carte, demeure chez certains - pas chez tous, pas chez tous - l'idée que 'quelque chose dans les cieux' va reprendre la main, va décider arbitrairement de distribuer une nouvelle donne, de relancer les dés, et cela même lorsqu'on n'a jamais ressenti, à aucun moment de sa vie, l'intervention ni même la présence d'une divinité quelconque, même lorsqu'on est conscient de ne pas particulièrement mériter l'intervention d'une divinité favorable, et même lorsqu'on se rend compte, considérant l'accumulation des erreurs et des fautes qui constitue votre vie, qu'on la mérite moins que personne.”

“La publicité échoue, les dépressions se multiplient, le désarroi s'accentue; la publicité continue cependant à bâtir les infrastructures de réception de ses messages. Elle continue à perfectionner des moyens de déplacement pour des êtres qui n'ont nulle part où aller, parce qu'ils ne sont nulle part chez eux; à développer des moyens de communication pour des êtres qui n'ont plus rien à dire; à faciliter les possibilités d'interaction entre des êtres qui n'ont plus envie d'entrer en relation avec quiconque.”