In this book of his in particular Houellebecq has some really interesting things to say about the state of the art world and about art itself more broadly as well. More often what I find him doing is diagnosing or critiquing problems with the art world, with the state of culture and society today, often in a kind of pretentious way even though I do mostly agree with him. I guess he doesn’t add as much artistry to the world so much as he just laments the state of it in a negative way, though I don’t see how anyone could not, we do live in pretty terrible times culturally and everything is going to shit, but there are still writers who are managing to add something new and interesting to the craft while also not pretending like everything is fine and dandy. That said, Houellebecq is obviously aware of this, and critiques and mocks himself in this one in a very funny way. And there are often passages of Houellebecq that are almost poetic in how on-the-nose they are, he can really just cut to the core of certain feelings. Lots of what he says about love and relationships can really hit too close to home and damn near make me cry. Though unfortunately, cry not from the beauty but from the pain at seeing harsh truths put so clearly and accurately. Sex is a transactional game where someone always ends up getting hurt in one way or another, even when love or romance is involved, on some Fassbinder shit, Jean Eustache too. I’m sure Houellebecq is familiar with Fassbinder and Eustache though I’m curious what he thinks of them. Anyway, everything’s fucked, we’re all so fucked.