| Finally, we have Michel Houellebecq's first novel out. In domestic book publishing, everything is topsy-turvy. “Expanding the space of struggle” (Foreigner-BSG-Press, translation by Nina Kulish) is the work with which the scandalous talk show under the name “Houellebecq” began. The Russian reader, as usual, watched it in the recording, and first “ate” the ending, and then figured out what the point was. For those who have not yet started watching, I strongly advise: you should not start “Elementary Particles” (M.U.’s programmatic novel) without first spending two hours reading “Expansion” lightly. Of course, “Particles” is a conceptual piece, worthy of respect and a place on the bookshelf. But in the first “high-profile” novels there is a special drive, which then becomes weaker, giving way to professionalism, accuracy, grace, and “production,” in the end. In the first novel, something is sure to go wrong, the author’s voice gives a rooster, and there is a strange thrill in this. For some reason you suddenly believe the writer, because the first success is impossible without a slight strain, without a touch of exhibitionism, without a taste of autobiography. In the case of Monsieur Chief Pornographer of Europe (i.e. Houellebecq), the detail that “Expansion of space” is rather a shameful thing is also important. The author is just casting bait: will he get away with some light shockingness? He got away with it, and an avalanche of revelations fell on the reader.
“Expanding the Space of Struggle” is a novel devoid of a strict plot. There's a lot of essayism here. Houellebecq makes his background clear to his future reader and speaks easily in the first person. Subsequently, he will distance himself from this “I” and, giving the main character his own name, will observe him from the side.
A thirty-year-old computer company employee receives a task from his superiors to introduce a new program nicknamed “Sycamore” into the agricultural sector. “In fact, the sycamore tree is a tree whose wood is highly valued by furniture makers, and in addition it produces a sweet juice.” In the modern world, names do not correspond to their “original meanings”: a serious reason for mass neurosis. The names of the items are just shells of files, devoid of content. The allegory is simple, the plot is predictable, and the reference is easy to read. The sycamore tree no longer produces fruit or fragrance. The pleasure of life has left man in the age of permissiveness, and that is why he cries so heart-rendingly for the thirst for pleasure. Old people buy tickets to the latest film showings in order to indulge in masturbation in close proximity to young people. But there are so few loving couples in the hall that for each there are five or six “handjobs”. Houellebecq's hero has not yet acquired that tired, disgusted intonation that will appear later. In the meantime, he describes the world with simple-minded amazement, which makes the scenes of the novel look piercingly absurd and unrelated. The language is gutted, the logical threads are torn, the solution is resignation or suicide. A worker who has spent his entire life in a stone sack writing programs is given a fishing rod for his retirement. A heart attack evokes no sympathy, and a car theft is followed by a series of handshakes and condolences. The cow waits for the bull, but only receives a syringe with semen.
The novel is torn to pieces, the author accompanies the reader’s torment with an ironic comment: “the gradual weakening of ties between people now poses well-known problems for the novelist.” All these moves and exits can be found in other derivatives from Houellebecq, with the only difference being that here there is genuine hysteria that precedes depression. Later - a cold analysis of the consequences. In “Space,” the hero loses his game before our eyes in order to continue to coolly watch the defeats of others. “I am cut off from everything; from now on I am a prisoner within myself. The divine merger will no longer happen; the goal of life has not been achieved.” Houellebecq's first novel ends where complex connections are interrupted and Elementary Particles begins. It turned out sincere and painful. This is not a dummy Beigbeder, but a real clinic. So I recommend it.
The same “Foreign Woman” has just released another novel in which Houellebecq’s absurdity is taken to its extreme stage. However, reading “The Blue Angel” by Francine Prowse (translated by Vera Prorokova) is much more pleasant. Anglo-American prose still guarantees the reader a gentle outpatient regimen. Here the author will not tear his shirt and demonstrate stigmata. Current problems are packaged in a good plot, embellished with a lot of details, tricks and twists. The nightmare approaches gradually, and along the way the reader manages to undergo a course of psychological preparation. The tragic ending is not depressing and even encouraging.
Prowse writes about modern American fascism. About how a person was gradually deprived of his private space and gagged with Monica Lewinsky's dress. It happens in the quiet of a provincial university. Somewhere in the distance the first rumbles of thunder can be heard. It becomes known that the student filed a criminal case against the teacher, accusing him of sexual harassment. There is no direct evidence, and the hearing is postponed. In the foreground is a literary seminar in Professor Svenson's group. The works of literary students are discussed. Young people tend to describe copulations with various representatives of the fauna. The teacher, a writer from the sixties, is irritated and shocked. Finally, the most unattractive of the students brings him a chapter from a novel about falling in love with a teacher. Then the plot bifurcates: the talented girl’s romance progresses from chapter to chapter, and the aging scribbler’s love grows. It will all end in the comrades' courtroom, where the young talent will bring a tape recording of their revelations. All the characters (there are several dozen of them - students and teachers) will testify against it, and even the daughter will tell how her daddy loved to “cuddle” her as a child.
From the outside, Prowse's novel looks predictable and schematic, but not from the inside. The American stuffed her bomb with so many small metal objects that even tactical training could not save her from injury. The Blue Angel has everything your heart desires - a novel within a novel, a satire on the modern education system, a love affair, a psychological drama, a social context - just not a drop of pathos. Everything is described so casually and in detail that to your horror you understand: this is the norm. Anyone who still cherishes the hope of an individual history will be crucified. “There should be no secrets. Everyone knows how dangerous everything secret is,” the little one teaches dad. If you have a secret, then you are an aggressor. Sexual or political. Doesn't matter. The main thing is that you inspire fear. If a person has at least something in his soul, then it is a bomb. Prowse leaves no chance for Americans to be humanized. The girl trampled the guy completely in cold blood: she had to publish a novel. Natalia BABINTSEVA
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