Platform

Je passai ma dernière journée de congé dans differents agences de voyage. J'aimais les catalogues de vacances, leur abstraction, leur manière de réduire les lieux du monde à une sequence limitée de bonheurs possibles et de tarifs; j'appreciais particulierement le système d'étoiles, pour indiquer l'intensité de bonheur qu'on était en droit d'éspérer.

(I passed my last free day in a few travel agencies. I love the abstract nature of travel brochures, the way in which they reduce the whole world to a finite sequence of possible types of pleasure, and their associated prices; I particularly appreciate the system by which a number of stars is used to indicate the intensity of pleasure one has the right to expect).

It reads like the fantasy of some horny middle-aged shit with nothing better to do with his time, like one of those disgusting old men who stares at my legs on the train. It's enough to make a girl wear pants, for goodness' sake.

A vicious and incredibly bleak social critique that is as subtle and incendiary as a suicide bomber. Houellebecq’s horror and hatred of our modern world spills from nearly every page; nothing is sacred and no one is spared. The novel is narrated by Michel, a pessimistic middle-aged man who, to his mind, lives in an era so corroded by consumerism, narcissism and terrorism that genuine human contact or happiness can only be obtained through the blissful abandon of sexual orgasm – even if it’s with

A vicious and incredibly bleak social critique that is as subtle and incendiary as a suicide bomber. Houellebecq’s horror and hatred of our modern world spills from nearly every page; nothing is sacred and no one is spared. The novel is narrated by Michel, a pessimistic middle-aged man who, to his mind, lives in an era so corroded by consumerism, narcissism and terrorism that genuine human contact or happiness can only be obtained through the blissful abandon of sexual orgasm – even if it’s with a stranger who will be accepting your cash afterwards.

While vacationing in Thailand, Michel meets Valérie, a younger woman of a similar disposition, and the two cynics begin an intense love affair. They gradually develop the idea of creating a chain of specialized tourist resorts that double as brothels, hoping to entice the (apparently) huge market of sexually frustrated jet-setters and retirees. In other words: sex tourism as a legitimate business enterprise. Using her executive status in the tourism industry and some clever marketing, among other things, Valérie is able to bring the idea into reality quite easily -- and it turns out to be a tremendous success. However, no one is prepared for the dangers of corporate greed and religious extremism that follow, and the consequences cause everything to spin wildly out of control.

For the most part, Platform is intelligently written, reasonably thought-provoking, and morbidly entertaining, so these compliments are enough to earn it at least a cautious recommendation. On the other hand, the large number of explicit sex scenes becomes almost ridiculous after awhile, adding little more than overheated hetero-male fantasy to the proceedings. With all the fornication, was Houellebecq trying to dull within his readers the lascivious lure of sex, thereby strengthening the book’s theme of the commodification of carnality in a discontented modern age? I don’t think so – it came across as a misanthropic-but-lonely author getting his rocks off by jotting down erotic prose, masturbating furiously in the murky theater of his imagination while his projected fantasies flicker across the decaying screen. Along with the book’s blatant anti-Islam sentiments, and its author’s position as recent European literature’s chief provocateur, maybe he just has an inherent need to create controversy any way he can. Still, again, I don’t regret the unpleasant-but-brief time I spent reading this brutal work of his.

I liked holiday brochures, their abstraction, their way of condensing the places of the world into a limited sequence of possible pleasures and fares. I was particularly fond of the star rating system, whic

I liked holiday brochures, their abstraction, their way of condensing the places of the world into a limited sequence of possible pleasures and fares. I was particularly fond of the star rating system, which indicated the intensity of the pleasure one was entitled to hope for. I wasn't happy, but I valued happiness and continued to aspire to it. According to the Marshall model, the buyer is a rational individual seeking to maximize his satisfaction while taking price into consideration; Veblen's model, on the other hand, analyzes the effect of peer pressure on the buying process (depending on whether the buyer wishes to be identified with a defined group opr to set himself apart from it). Copeland demonstrates that the buying process varies, depending on the category of product/service (impulse purchase, considered purchase, specialized purchase); but the Buadrillard and Becker model posits that a purchase necessarily implies a series of signals. Overall, I felt myself closer to the Marshall model.

It's easy to play the smart aleck, to give the impression that you've understood something about life; the fact remains that life comes to an end. My fate was similar to his, and we had shared the same defeat, yet I felt no active sense of solidarity. In the absence of love, nothing can be sanctified.

The self is the synthesis of our failures but it is only a partial synthesis.

If a man laughs, if he is the only one, in the animal kingdom, to exhibit this atrocious facial deformation, it is also the case that he is the only one, if you disregard the natural self-centredness of animals, to have attained the supreme and infernal stage of cruelty.

The disappearance of tenderness always closely follows that of eroticism. There is no refined relationship, no higher union of souls, nor anything that might resemble it, or even evoke it allusively. When physical love disappears, everything disappears; a dreary, depthless irritation fills the passing days. And, with regard to physical love, I hardly had any illusions. Youth, beauty, strength: the criteria for physical love are exactly the same as those of Nazism.

. . . art was always cosa individuale; even when it was a protest, it only had value if it was a solitary protest.

I had probably never had a real conversation with anyone other than a woman I loved, and essentially it seemed unsurprising to me that the exchange of ideas with someone who doesn't know your body, is not in a position to secure its unhappiness or on the other hand to bring it joy, was a false and ultimately impossible exercise, for we are bodies, we are, above all, principally and almost uniquely bodies, and the state of our bodies constitutes the true explanation of the majority of our intellectual and moral conceptions.

Je n'étais pas malheureux, j'avais cent vingt-huit chaînes.

C'est dans le rapport à autrui qu'on prend conscience de soi; c'est bien ce qui rend le rapport à autrui insupportable.

Vivre sans lecture c'est dangereux, il faut se contenter de la vie, ça peut amener à prendre des risques.

Quand les hommes n'ont pas de vices, se dit-elle, il est bien difficile de deviner ce qui peut leur faire plaisir.