Submission

by Michel Houellebecq

I am revolted with my life, I am sick of myself, but so far from changing my ways!

The beauty of an author’s style, the music of his sentences, have their importance in literature, of course; the depth of an author’s reflections, the originality of his thought, certainly can’t be overlooked; but an author is above all a human being, present in his books, and whether he writes very well or very badly hardly matters—as long as he gets the books written and is, indeed, present in them.

What little private tutoring I’d done, to raise my standard of living, soon convinced me that the transmission of knowledge was generally impossible, the variance of intelligence extreme, and that nothing could undo or even mitigate this basic inequality.

From the beginning Bloy struck me as the prototype of the bad Catholic, who never actually exalts in his faith and zeal unless he’s convinced that the people around him are going to hell.

People like to be listened to, as every researcher knows—every researcher, every writer, every spy.

Really, with girls today, all bets are off.

I was overcome by the feeling that everything could disappear.

They were exactly the opposite of Western women, who spent their days dressed up and looking sexy to maintain their social status, then collapsed in exhaustion once they got home, abandoning all hope of seduction in favor of clothes that were loose and shapeless.

He wanted a good little cook who could also turn herself into a whore, and he wanted this on a fixed schedule. It didn’t seem so hard, turning into a whore, it seemed easier than making a good béarnaise, yet he sought this woman in vain.

When a Muslim party comes to power, it’s never good for the Jews. Can you think of a time it was?” I let this go. I didn’t really know much about history.

Did you have to be baptized to teach in a Christian school? On reflection, I realized I didn’t know the first thing about it.

“There is no Israel for me.”

started to wonder what I was doing there. This very basic question can occur to anyone, anywhere, at any moment in his life, but there’s no denying that the solitary traveler is especially vulnerable.

I walked down picturesque, deserted lanes until I reached the church of Saint-Maur. Massive, nearly windowless, it was a sort of ecclesiastical fortress. The information sheet said it had been built to resist the many attacks of the infidels who used to populate the region.

no group had ever thought of exploiting this weakness.

I’d always loved the chapter in À rebours in which des Esseintes is inspired to plan a trip to London after rereading Dickens—then finds himself stuck in a tavern in the rue d’Amsterdam, unable to get up from the table.

The newscasters, with their vans parked up and down along the rue de Solferino, the rue de Vaugirard, and the boulevard Malesherbes, more or less succeeded in hiding the fact that they had nothing of substance to report.

“What’s amazing about Bayrou, what makes him irreplaceable,” Tanneur enthused, “is that he’s an utter moron. He’s never had a political agenda beyond getting himself elected to the ‘highest office in the land,’ whatever that might take, and he’s never had an idea of his own—he’s never even pretended, which is unusual. If you’re looking for a politician who can embody the humanist spirit, he’s perfect:

The left, paralyzed by his multicultural background, had never been able to fight him, or so much as mention his name.

I’d bet he didn’t even vote—he knew too much.

Mother, behold your sons so lost to themselves. Judge them not on a base intrigue But welcome them back like the Prodigal Son. Let them return to outstretched arms.

Or maybe I was just hungry.

falling down between the pews in an attack of mystical hypoglycemia.

She promised to let me know next time she organized a gang bang. I thanked her. The truth was, I wasn’t interested, but she seemed like a nice person.

Should I just die? The decision struck me as premature.