Yeah, seing Michael Houllebecq cited approvingly in a novel--or indeed cited at all--isn't a good sign of anything. This story unravels as a series of listlessly sexual encounters, differing from each other largely in whether or not the protagonist is wearing a condom. You can tell where the novel feels it's said something really clever about contemporary sexual experience because it will repeat it three or four times. I suppose all of what I'm describing is the point of the novel--that contemporary life is marked by listlessly, repetitious sex acts--and I suppose on its own terms this succeeds in doing what it describes. But, eh.