Merci, M. Houellebecq
Houellebecq's ability to observe both himself and the world around him, to interpret it, and to deliver it to his reader is unrivalled for me in fiction from recent years. I don't agree with all his views - particularly those that got him in so much trouble in France and led to his 'excile' to Ireland - but his placement of sexuality in life; his attitude towards love and its distinction from lust; his romanticism of the perfect woman underpinning an incessant disapointment at the reality of actual women (it is this that for me distinuguishes Houellebecq from a mysogynist); his antipithy for the drearyness of working life (I have dabbled in the civil service and sypathise with his plight, both in his life and his fiction) and his appreciation of the emptiness of social living and the acute sense of lonliness that people deny themselves from feeling, by constructing for themselves an imaginary 'place' in the world.
I will never be half the writer he is, but I will never be as "black and withered inside" (although that is exactly what I was called by someone not long ago) as Houellebecq is reported to be, and, I suppose, that is a blessing.
Give me the beat boys and free my soul! I wanna getta lost in ya rock n' roll and drift away. Drift away...