Serotonin

Serotonin, by Michel Houllebecq.  Houellebecq has written one great novel (The Map And The Territory) and one good novel (Atomised), and quite a few others of decidedly lesser quality, including Serotonin, which may be called, charitably, mediocre. The narrator tells us, vaguely, how he has become alienated from modern life, so much so that he decides to disappear himself. It sounds like a decent premise, but the telling is shallow, the booked padded with various characters’ superfluous sex histories, which read like YouPorn plot synopses, the only exception being an 8 page subplot about a German pedophile, which one might suspect of being Houellebcq’s confession by proxy, as it is, by far, the best written and most spirited 8 pages in the book, the only 8 pages that seem not to have been written on autopilot. There are also Houellebecq’s trademark Michelin Guide-like descriptions of tourist towns, hotels and restaurants, and yet another of his seemingly canny prophecies, as he anticipates the Yellow Vest movement in the book’s dairy farmer subplot.  But in the end, really the only thing that keeps one (barely) reading are the insults Houellebecq tosses out every 10 pages or so at various cultural landmarks such as Alain Finkielkraut, Christine Angot, Catherine Millet, Vincent Cassel, etc. The rest is just a feeble attempt to come to terms with our contemporary barren GoogleAppleFacebookAmazon world.