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out of one’s wares; figuratively, just plain showing off.
And he sometimes resorts to some very clumsy mechanisms
to show the extent of his knowledge: at one point,
Michel and Bruno have an in-depth conversation about
Aldous Huxley, displaying a highly unlikely command
of historical and biographical details.
Perhaps it’s a sign of insecurity. Maybe he has more
in common with his namesake than he would admit.
The result of the name- and fact-dropping is a patchy
story, where the narrative flow is repeatedly interrupted.
The early part of the book follows the boys through
their deeply unhappy childhood. These are unexceptional,
rather dull and very mundane lives, and the characters
fail to engage any real emotion on the reader’s
part. The book swings wildly from lofty philosophical
thoughts to very basic instincts.
Later, large tracts of the book are taken up with
Bruno’s sexual adventures. At a holiday camp – one
of whose main activities seems to be cruising for
casual sex – he encounters Christiane, a libertine who
introduces him to the joys of the orgy circuit. And this
points up a key distinction between the uptight Anglo-
Saxon and relaxed French views towards sex (at the
last count, there were over 400 sex clubs in France,
catering for both échangistes – wife swappers – and the
more adventurous mélangistes – orgy-goers).
Sex sells, of course, which is why the UK version
of Atomised features a naked woman on the cover,
together with the promise from The Independent that
it is “very moving, gloriously, extravagantly filthy, and
very funny.”
Tellingly, the French edition features a sepia photograph
of a bored-looking Houellebecq smoking a rollup
held between his third an fourth fingers (a trademark
eccentricity) and a carrier bag draped over his left arm.
In the end, though, the book fails to weave a compelling
story. There are too many undigested chunks
of science and politics, too many swerves from highbrow
philosophy to lowbrow oral sex. And far too
much étalage.
But perhaps one of the most unnerving things about
Houellebecq’s books is his propensity to kill off his female
characters. And Atomised has a high body count:
the brothers’ mother (of natural causes), and both their
girlfriends (suicides). Which has, inevitably, led to
accusations of misogyny – to add to the anti-Muslim,
anti-Semite and anti-black charges that Houellebecq
has clocked up during his turbulent career.
Perhaps it’s no surprise, then, that Houellebecq has
chosen to retreat to an island off the coast of West Cork,
from which he rarely emerges. He did venture forth to
Dublin earlier this year, when Atomised won the Impac
Literary Prize, the latest in a string of awards he’s
bagged. And to Paris, to run rings round the tribunal.
But then he’s very good a running rings round people.
Perhaps too good. �
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