Somewhere Between the Marquis de Sade and the Twist

“…nor could [Houellebecq] have emerged from the hundreds of wallet-siphoning creative writing MFA programs, whose grasp on the American literary world has sanitized literature to an unreadable degree.”

There is a scene that comes late in Michel Houellebecq’s new novel, Serotonin, where the protagonist Florent-Claude (a name he hates) goes to rent a house in the French commune Saint-Aubert-sur-Orne from a middle-aged, divorced, self-described “failed” architect, whose life he sees as so similar to his own that it is, “almost becoming oppressive.”

Whether their lives are really that similar or whether Florent-Claude is merely projecting his own failures onto this man’s life is a matter of interpretation. But when his future landlord warns him there isn’t any Internet connection in the house and Florent-Claude doesn’t seem to mind, he worries the landlord might think it strange because, “people who agree to cut themselves off from the Internet for an indefinite period without even wincing are up to no good.”

In fact, Florent-Claude is up to no good. He’s looking for a house to stalk (and perhaps something worse) an ex-girlfriend, Camille, whom he regrets ruining his relationship with years ago, for one lusty unfaithful night with another woman.

“‘I’m not going to kill myself,” he reassures the landlord, “…Well, not right now.’”

Later, after he moves in, Florent-Claude is surprised to discover the complete works of the Marquis de Sade on the architect’s bookshelf; and on the abandoned mezzanine with “disemboweled sofas with moldy fabric, half-upside down on the floor,” he finds a record player with a dusty collection of 45s, mostly “twist records”: