Houellebecq is phenomenal. While his writing is undoubtedly full of ideas, it is not merely intellectual, for it never fails to provide an emotional punch to the kidney. Always bleak and painful, it presents the modern world in a rather fetishistically hopeless way. I cannot endorse this sentiment. My life has been one trauma after another. Yet, I ended up loving life in a holistic sort of way, with passion and without a tinch of resentment. But I do feel you, Michel, and you might not want to hear this, but yes, I do pity you.

They’ve all come
the boy and his brother
the screams have brought them running
To see their dying mother
They’ve all come
The wop and the bum
Bringing gifts
To their dear old mum

“I’m not Irish myself. I was born in Cambridge. I’m still very English, they tell me. People often say that the English are very cold fish, very reserved, that they have a way of looking at things—even tragedy—with a sense of irony. There’s some truth in it; it’s pretty stupid of them, though. Humor won’t save you; it doesn’t really do anything at all. You can look at life ironically for years, maybe decades; there are people who seem to go through most of their lives seeing the funny side, but in the end, life always breaks your heart. Doesn’t matter how brave you are, or how reserved, or how much you’ve developed a sense of humor, you still end up with your heart broken. That’s when you stop laughing. In the end there’s just the cold, the silence and the loneliness. In the end there’s only death.”