Lots Of Mucus And Engaged

Living of "sprawl"

(written emphasis on Michel Houellebecq)

Michel Houellebecq?

The essay on Lovecraft, I remember.

I liked?

thought for a moment, there in front of the shelf, with domain in the hands of the fight.

stop thinking, through the book, the smell of good paper spurious Pocket Bompiani, the simple books in paperback, "recently," I have always adored.

addition to the impression that the case proceeds to open a few pages of text, read two lines, four, ten, there is already entitled to decide for me. Extending the domain of the struggle : title simply disastrous. Then there's that name, what do you think? Sounds amazing, Houellebecq.

Instead, for some kind of flaw, I read the book quickly, vulgar, which is perhaps more than anything else I swallow it, a practice generally reserved for texts bland, grayish, to be stored as read and nothing more.

Moreover, the narrator seems to tell him first that we could also skirt the issue on the history of this man in his forties who is not seeking any joint interest with their lives. Moreover character reminds me of the "popular" by Camus, I l 'Etranger . The

I read the book, however, places it in the limbo of those texts that do not love and not hate.

yet, and yet - think - something in that little book appeals to me.

that happens every so often rescued from the shelf and reread it a few steps.

Like, the more I read, the more I like it.

I was hasty to bury Houellebecq so soon? This simplistic

his writing, science, serious, he expressed himself on the other hand with a cynical force, and senseless in the succession of events, marginal characters, in some dubious extras, I could easily trace the author's intention.

now connected to the formal emptiness emptiness real.

More generally, I would say that the form of Houellebecq - Extension of time to the domain of the struggle in many of its passages of poetry - mirroring the "light but widespread poverty simultaneously."

Today's "cave Social refuses entry to sighs mortal remains rough old age, doom, goodness. Outside

death becomes something worse, becomes disappearance without a trace, the non-memory.

Therefore, to leave any trace of him, you get roughly the domain of the struggle. Bella

the fight, its a beautiful lie.

If we try to immerse ourselves in the fight, just to take us beyond the territory that is known to us, we die here every day, little by little.

The extension, therefore, is only a chimera, a maze of cowardice.

short, we are on a platform ; place unstable, neutral, located between melancholy and fierce desire to escape the fear of failure.

So there is a decent way to fight, or to extend the domain of the struggle?

Apparently not.

course, there's always the search for love, but love is very rare - Houellebecq says, moreover, even when it encounters, you will have to fight again, almost always in vain. As long as there will be new, chilling, masterful vision of death.

Ultimately, more than death itself, or the decay of the flesh, here we read first the painful loneliness of man, the man who lives in un'autocensura of the senses, abdicates, leaves, closes; later the man who throws a few crumbs of fighting on the ground, and there it ends.

ascend Concorde Imaginary of the fight, take off, we go to altitude.

Now slip with their eyes down, look at the "sprawl", the apparent dispersion of human shelters ridiculous.

From now we will see, the man of Houellebecq: alone, a gray, already dissolved, the enormous loss of life.