
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
I couldn't finish this. Houellebecq's books seem to be mostly porn, not so much for those scenes, but for the drab writing and non-movement of time that comes between them.
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Gratitude is too sweet a sentiment to carry: you have to leave it somewhere and a book is the only honorable place, the only compromising. Whatever the particular value may be of several protagonists in my story, it's the same for each person in every civilization: the father's love weighs down on his son, the son has to wait until someone has the power to show him otherwise in order for him to finally perceive what it consists of. It takes time to understand what to love means.