Metro Pulse/Pulp/Michel Houellebecq

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Houellebecq's Platform does not speak well for mankind

by John Sewell

Anything goes, it seems, in the world of modern literature. The novel has historically been a refuge for louts, wretches and miscreants of all forms. Under the guise of fiction, the most vile, negative and flat-out wrongheaded notions can be accepted as high art—provided that the writing has a certain poetic flair. (See Henry Miller, William S. Burroughs, Marquis DeSade, Charles Bukowski, John Rechy, Pauline Reage et al.)

Michel Houellebecq, the antagonistic French provocateur, just might have succeeded in upping the ante of sheer literary effrontery. His third novel, Platform (Knopf) deftly treads where few writers have trod. Sure, there are always scads of young writers hoping to push the scandal envelope. But Houellebecq's high brow trash is so cocksure, so bleak, narcissistic, and damned honest, that the reader can't put it down. What's more, the author backs up his polemic with a philosophical logic, albeit twisted. That's right, there's a philosopher in the brothel.

Houellebecq begins his litany of literary cardinal sins by mimicking Albert Camus in the first sentence: "Father died last year." From square one, the reader is taken on a crash course through hell, and what a breathtaking ride it is.

The protagonist, who is incidentally named Michel (Who'd have thunk it?), is a stereotypically detached, alienated male solipsist. Of course, this kind of character is typical for brooding, angry-white-guy writers ad nauseum. However, Houellebecq's sheer audacity breathes new life to a hackneyed literary form.

After his father's funeral, Michel, who is already well-to-do, becomes a rich man through inheritance. Of course, this sudden windfall is nothing to celebrate. "My temperament, however, was less than warm, and I had failed to make any real friends.... Why had I never shown any passion in my life in general?"

While Michel may have no passion for life in general, he certainly has a passion for some, ahem, rather torrid pursuits. A rampant hedonist, the protagonist embarks on an Asian holiday where he samples from the smorgasbord of Thailand's sex industry, proving himself to be quite the gourmand in the process.

Like every misanthrope, Michel has an excuse for everything. As a matter of fact, the creation of intellectualized apologia for downright inexcusable behavior seems to be his forte. (The same could be applied to Houellebecq himself, though the author seems to seek no forgiveness for anything. It's as if every time Houellebecq gleefully bounds onto another taboo territory, he dares this trailblazing of immorality to be challenged by anyone with enough cheek to take him on. Being a cad among cads means never having to say you're sorry.)

Lo and behold, Michel finds a distraction on his vacation. Sure enough, he meets an attractive, intelligent and much younger woman, Valerie. Of course, Michel's initial attraction to Valerie is, at least at first, not exactly the stuff of standard romantic fare. "It was then that I realized that this young woman (Valerie) was in no way submissive to Josian, she was just submissive in general, and maybe just ready to look for a new master."

It turns out that, after a few brief explorations, Valerie is as eager as Michel to engage in what Michel calls "sex tourism." What's more, she's a high-ranking resort promoter. And before you know it, the two are raking in big dollars by establishing tropical vacation resorts where anything goes. They're not pimps per se: rather, they create a holiday atmosphere where tourists are encouraged to seek whatever pleasures they desire.

In Michel's worldview, nothing good can ever last. And, of course, his relationship with Valerie is shattered when she is gunned down in a terrorist attack. (I really shouldn't go any further with this description, lest I spoil the not-so-surprising ending.)

Platform's strength is not in its plot, but in the various tangents of the narrator. Houellebecq uses the first-person tirades of the protagonist to espouse questionable views about the moral righteousness of purchasing sex, the wrongs of the Muslim religion, distaste for all creatures great and small (especially his fellow man) and the essential futility of living in general.

Unlike the earlier Elementary Particles, a similarly-themed novel that somehow manages to find at least a shred of worth in the human experience, Platform is all negativity, all flash and all sensation. Now that the author is somewhat known in the literary world, he's seen fit to use his fiction as a jumping-off point from which he can make blanket statements damning the human race.

Oddly enough, Houellebecq's misanthropy can be entertaining. The novel's constant harangue is so pungent that it's almost funny. And there's more than enough squalor to keep anyone with a taste for the picaresque turning pages. Platform is a fast read, and the author's cheek can be amusing, provided your own sacred cow is not the one being slaughtered. One wonders, however, whether Houellebecq hasn't painted himself into a corner this time around.