Serotonina

by Michel Houellebecq, Jaime Zulaika (Translator)

Florent-Claude Labrouste tiene cuarenta y seis años, detesta su nombre y se medica con Captorix, un antidepresivo que tiene tres efectos adversos: náuseas, desaparición de la libido e impotencia.

Su periplo arranca en Almería, sigue por las calles de París y después por Normandía, donde los agricultores están en pie de guerra. Francia se hunde, la Unión Europea se hunde, la vida sin rumbo de Florent-Claude se hunde. El amor es una entelequia. El sexo es una catástrofe. La cultura no es una tabla de salvación.

Florent-Claude descubre unos escabrosos vídeos pornográficos en los que aparece su novia japonesa, deja el trabajo y se va a vivir a un hotel. Deambula por la ciudad, visita bares, restaurantes y supermercados. Filosofa y despotrica. También repasa sus relaciones amorosas, marcadas siempre por el desastre, en ocasiones cómico y en otras patético. Se reencuentra con un viejo amigo, cuya vida parecía perfecta pero ya no lo es porque su mujer le ha abandonado por un pianista inglés y se ha llevado a sus dos hijas. Y ese amigo le enseña a manejar un fusil...

Nihilista lúcido, Michel Houellebecq construye un personaje y narrador desarraigado, obsesivo y autodestructivo, que escruta su propia vida y el mundo que le rodea con un humor áspero y una virulencia desgarradora. Serotonina demuestra que su autor sigue siendo un cronista despiadado de la decadencia de Occidente, un escritor indómito, incómodo y totalmente imprescindible.

Genres: Fiction, France, Contemporary, French Literature, Literature, Novels, Literary Fiction

288 pages, Paperback

First published January 4, 2019

About the author

Michel Houellebecq (born Michel Thomas), born 26 February 1958 (birth certificate) or 1956 on the French island of Réunion, is a controversial and award-winning French novelist. To admirers he is a writer in the tradition of literary provocation that reaches back to the Marquis de Sade and Baudelaire; to detractors he is a peddler, who writes vulgar sleazy literature to shock. His works though, particularly Atomised, have received high praise from the French literary intelligentsia, with generally positive international critical response, Having written poetry and a biography of the horror writer H. P. Lovecraft, he brought out his first novel Extension du domaine de la lutte in 1994. Les particules élémentaires followed in 1998 and Plateforme, in 2001. After a disastrous publicity tour for this book, which led to his being taken to court for inciting racial hatred, he went to Ireland to write. He currently resides in France, where he has been described as "France’s biggest literary export and, some say, greatest living writer". In 2010 he published La Carte et le Territoire (published the same year in English as The Map and the Territory) which won the prestigious Prix Goncourt; and, in 2015, Submission.

Reviews

[BlackOxford · Rating 2 out of 5]

The New European

I try; I really do. I want to be hip, and cosmopolitan, and wittily detached. I even take the trouble to track Houellebecq’s locations on GoogleEarth in order to keep my interest levels up. But I fail. I do; I fail. I feel broken, dissipated, impotent. I try to hide it but the lines on my face are unmistakable marks of defeat as well as age. I must be the wrong temperament, or the wrong nationality, or perhaps have the wrong hormones. Yes, that’s it, the hormones.

I do enjoy the self-satisfied Euro-cynicism and the complacent nationalistic profiling (“You’re never well received by the English–they are almost as racist as the Japanese, like a lite version of them;” “How could a Dutch person be xenophobic? That’s an oxymoron: right there: Holland isn’t a country, it’s a business at best”). And I know about the literary allusions, the very French psycho-drama, and the implicit rebuke of the culture of late stage global capitalism. Serotonin is no doubt a work 0f refined and sensitive taste.

But taste just doesn't compensate for the pervasive dullness of the story, the triviality and banality of the descriptive details, or the smug vapidness of the characters. Tout est de ma faute. J'ai eu l'éducation d'un paysan et je n'ai jamais lu Molière. Je ne peux que baisser la tête de honte.

[Fionnuala]

Ten books ago (I find I measure time in books these days), I read a story about a forty-something year-old bachelor who spent his life, at least within the time of the story, driving about the country in the kind of fashionable vehicle a single man of his time would not be ashamed to be seen in. While he travelled, he liked to dream, though less and less as his story went on, of finding someone with whom he could settle down and start a family. And as he drove about the highways and byways of the Russian Empire visiting land-owning farmers, he collected lists of dead serfs, or Dead Souls, as he called them.

The narrator of Sérotonine fits that description almost exactly, although the farming country he drives through is located in twenty-first century France rather than nineteenth century Russia, and his vehicle is a Mercedes G Class rather than a britska. And instead of accumulating lists of dead souls, Houellebecq's forty-something year-old narrator, Labrouste, lists his accumulation of dead love affairs, while still dreaming, like Gogol's Chichikov, of finding someone to settle down with. Both heroes have had less than glorious professional lives, and in spite of their tendency towards melancholic and regret-full thoughts, they nevertheless have a keen interest in food and drink. Furthermore, their authors each have the ability to mix the serious with the comic, and the sacred with the profane. It was not surprising therefore that Labrouste reminded me of Chichikov.

So, imagine my satisfaction when, two thirds of the way through his narrative, Labrouste, who hardly ever reads novels any more, picks up Dead Souls and seems to get more pleasure from it than from most other things in his life including his daily dose of Captorix, the drug he takes to raise his levels of serotonin and treat his depression. He can only manage a few pages of Gogol a day but still, the book seems to be able to reach into his more or less dead soul.

Once Houellebecq mentioned Dead Souls, I began to see other parallels between the two books. One of Houellebecq's themes is the present crisis in the French agricultural sector: farmers obliged to abandon their land because they can no longer sell their produce at an acceptable profit margin due to European Union quotas which set limits on the price and quantity farmers can produce, and also due to huge consortiums taking over the food production industry, further reducing profit margins. Gogol tells a similar story: the land-owning farmers Chichikov visits are mostly on the brink of bankruptcy and can find no way out of their difficulties except selling up and moving to the city. Houellebecq's farmers find a twenty-first century solution: a version of the current gilets jaunes demonstrations except with farm machinery and hunting rifles instead of banners and placards.

Labrouste, however, makes his own protest against the age he is living in. No yellow vests, no blocked motorways, no hunting rifles. His is a much quieter and more private protest, and his account of it is utterly moving.

[Meike · Rating 4 out of 5]

Now Longlisted for the International Booker Prize 2020
You have to give it to Houellebecq that he knows how to ridicule the media hype machine by making it his willing accomplice, so don't get distracted by the flashy trigger words (masturbation! impotence! suicide! paedophilia! sodomy! drugs!) and let's look at the heart of this story that beats underneath all of this, and beats much stronger than the hearts of the people depicted. Houellebecq's new novel is told from the perspective of 46-year old agricultural engineer Florent-Claude Labrouste and has two interwoven narrative strands: In one, Labrouste looks back at his failed love life and tells us about the women he loved (well, or at least had sex with) and lost; in the other, we learn about the tragic destiny of his friend Aymeric with whom he went to university and who became a farmer.

Houellebecq himself also studied agricultural engineering and, like Labrouste, used to work for the French Ministry of Agriculture. While Labrouste joins the administrative side, Aymeric turns away from his decadent noble family and starts a biological farm - both end up disillusioned and broken. Although he has become quite wealthy, Labrouste perceives his career as failed because he didn't achieve to protect and support the French farmers against global economic interests, and I will not spoil here what happens to Aymeric, but let me re-assure you that it's absolutely terrible (to claim that these scenes predicted the "gilets jaunes" in France, as many press articles have claimed, seems pretty far-fetched to me though). "Serotonin" makes a strong argument for sustainable farming and against intensive stock-rearing as well as the destruction of the environment, and I am pretty sure that Houellebecq, the moralist, is dead serious with his message. While I do not share his cynical view of the EU or politics in general, I applaud him for putting questions of European agricultural policies at the center of a novel - who else does that? And this guy sure has the power to spark a debate.

Now on to the other narrative strand, Labrouste's love life, where we encounter tons of classic Houellebecq themes. Our protagonist, middle-aged, white, lonely and severely depressed, is still longing for his lost love Camille, who he will try to find during the course of the novel, but also tells us about many other women who played a role during his life. Interestingly, Labrouste does believe that true love used to exist, and his parents' marriage is portrayed as perfect and pure like an almost religious ideal - an ideal that, according to Labrouste, has been corrupted by postmodern hardcore capitalism and the commodification of human beings. And now we're of course right in the middle of the classic Houellebecq discourse: Sexual escapades, (aging) men possessed by their lust for (young) women/men, women having sex to gain some advantage, hookers, sex tourism, child abuse etc. pp. - decay that is brought about by spiritual emptiness. Many, many ideas Houellebecq utters in different contexts (which does not mean that he necessarily means them, but that that doesn't even matter here) are questionable and I strongly disagree with a lot of what he says, but again, to write a book that so brutally focuses on the devastating effects of loneliness and the feeling of defeat certainly does have merit in times like ours. It's not about agreeing with this author, it's about discussing what he says.

The title-giving "Serotonin" is of course a neurotransmitter that - among other things - contributes to feelings of well-being and happiness. Our narrator is prescribed a new kind of anti-depressant to increase his serotonin levels, a drug that has impotence as a side effect and that allows the patient to function in a commodified world. That's what it comes down to: Labrouste is struggling to function, but for what, and for how long? This book will cause you some laughs, it will make you think and sometimes shake your head, it has some lengths that will annoy you, it has twists that will make you gasp, you will be fascinated and appalled, but above all - and I guess that's why some people are desperately trying to write all of this off as irony - this is a book about alienation and pain-stakingly sad. Houellebecq, still one of the greatest living authors.

[Valeriu Gherghel · Rating 3 out of 5]

Încep cu acest pasaj: „Nimeni nu va mai fi fericit în Occident niciodată, în zilele noastre se cuvine să privim fericirea ca pe o năzuinţă străveche, pur şi simplu nu se mai întrunesc condiţii istorice favorabile”.

MH înțelege fericirea ca stare continuă, deși însuși numele franțuzesc al fericirii (bonheur) arată că e o stare intermitentă. Nu poți fi fericit 24 de ore din 24. Pentru a trăi o permanentă beatitudine (accesibilă, în fond, doar sfinților), eroii săi recurg la trei mijoace reputate:

1) Beau de sting, dar nu orice, aș, nu vor să-și distrugă ficatul, sorb doar băuturi scumpe și fine. Iar băutura fără țigări e ca o măsea fără carie, așa încît numitul Florent-Claude Labrouste, funcționar agricol, fumează ca un turc. Rezultatul e, desigur, zero. Fericirea se lasă așteptată.

2) Fac sex în draci. Știm deja fanteziile eroilor lui MH. Le știm, din Platforma, și pe cele ale femeilor. Nici sexul nu duce la nimic.

3) Înghit antidepresive cu pumnul. Vor cît mai multă serotonină. Din păcate, antidepresivele reduc drastic libidoul și-i moleșesc pe mușterii. Din lac în puț. Și nici nu-l scot pe Florent-Claude din depresie.

Punctul 3 e singurul la care merită să medităm. Neurologii gîndesc aproape totul în termeni chimici. Inclusiv starea de bine. Idealul lor e să modifice trăirile și simțirile omului pe cale chimică. Totul e o problemă de dozaj farmaceutic. Ți-e frică de frică, ai angoase sartriene? Pui pe limbă un anxiolitic și-ți regăsești curajul de a înfrunta viața. Ai depresii, melancolii, tristeți? Consideri că ai eșuat în meserie? Te-a părăsit iubita pentru un golan cu tatuaje și cercei în urechi? Nici o problemă. Iei cîte o pastiluță de Zoloft de 3 ori pe zi (sau mai des). Nu-ți găsești somnul, te îndrepți lucid spre ora 3 din noapte, ora sinucigașilor? Există hipnotice. O tabletă de Stilnox face minuni. Vezi alieni, ai audiții colorate, simți că totul e o mare conspirație împotriva ta și a omenirii? S-a făcut. Un antipsihotic te scoate din abis. Încă unul și poți candida la Primărie. Acest ideal e pe cale să se împlinească. Nu mai e mult și vom deveni euforici la unison. Biochimiștii au programat deja fericirea unanimă.

Mă întorc la Houellebecq. El înțelege fericirea numai ca plăcere senzuală, erotică. Culmea fericirii este orgasmul. Deși au păreri estetice foarte ferme (Goethe a fost un „bătrîn imbecil”, Thomas Mann, un idiot), nici unul dintre personajele lui Houellebecq nu se omoară cu cititul. În Platforma, eroul citește The Hollow de Agatha Christie. În Serotonină, constatăm un mic progres. Florent-Claude Labrouste citește o pagină sau două pe zi din Suflete moarte de Gogol (un „autor rus cam uitat”). Nu mai mult. Lectura îi produce plăcere, dar nu suficientă plăcere încît să renunțe la Captorix (noul strigăt în materie de molecule antidepresive). În definitiv, conchide protagonistul, „toată cultura lumii nu slujește la nimic”.

Nici unul din indivizii lui MH nu gîndește cu adevărat. Eroii au doar remușcări, procese de conștiință, căințe, impulsuri destructive. Viața le-a jucat un renghi. Și-a bătut joc de ei. Istoria i-a zdrobit. Așadar, nu e vina lor.

În Nașterea tragediei, Nietzsche amintea acest dialog: „Ce-i mai bine pentru om? - Să moară imediat. Dar și mai bine ar fi fost să nu se fi născut...”.

[Ilse · Rating 2 out of 5]

It was Fionnuala’s review which prompted me to read Michel Houellebecq once more – the parallels she drew with Nikolaj Gogol’s Dead Souls intrigued me and struck me as apt and illuminating once I had finished the book. Looking at the main character, Labrouste through the prism of the ‘dead soul’ itself gives an extra dimension to the protagonist’s forlornness. I was surprised how the tone of this book almost soundlessly shifted from the cynic-hilarious to a moment one stops laughing and realises that life can indeed be as gloomy and dead-end as the one Labrouste finds himself in. As a main character Labrouste’s personality seemed perfectly interchangeable with other main characters in the novels of Houellebecq I did read previously – another manifestation of the author himself, lacking the caustic humour of The Map and the Territory however as he more takes on a sentimental pose of a schlemiel hankering for compassion. As much as this Labrouste seems numbed , there is at least some self-insight when he observes “I can't hide the truth: I will end my life unhappy, cantankerous and alone, and I will have deserved it.”

Right.

While I recall I didn’t dislike reading Houellebecq’s ranting in the past, finding more tenderness and humour in it than I had expected from his reputation, browsing the notes I made upon finishing the book almost two years ago the lingering impression is one of tepidity. Yes, it is Houellebecq, and so one knows one can expect cynic, racist, sexist and jingoist blathering (in particular his ‘musings’ on his Japanese lover are annoying to put it mildly; bestiality and paedophilia were just of a few other ingredients carelessly thrown into the cocktail). It left me wondering if I had been sleeping when I was reading those other novels, as those snide asides were now screaming in my face (a similar shift I experienced in reading Somerset Maugham recently, The Moon and Sixpence, with an equally unlikeable main character). Nevertheless I cannot say I was shocked, rather stupefied, befuddled, numbed. Particularly in the first half of the novel the prose stuck me as rather tedious and as flat as the narrator’s emotions seem numbed by the serotonin. Yet, as much as Labrouste’s narcissism and amorality puts the reader’s empathy to the test, the bleakness and suffering of which this novel is replete eventually got under my skin. Far more however than Labrouste’s bleak views the hopeless situation of the French farmers and of his friend Aymeric were what unsettled me – Houellebecq’s depiction of the cynic excessiveness of neoliberalism.



(Willem de Kooning – Woman I)

[Adam Dalva · Rating 4 out of 5]

A bit of a shark-jumper for Houellebecq, whose talents as a writer remain undeniable. SEROTONIN is a fast read, gripping despite a lack of suspense. It the story of a gourmand who medicates for depression and makes increasingly odd choices while journeying through his past. The polemic treatment of "the west in decline" is often fascinating, and though I don't agree with Houellebecq on many things, it is fun to argue with him internally about things like free-trade (a lengthy dairy farmer sequence is fascinating), the internet's effect on traditional values, and psychiatric medication.

The problem is that the stuff that is going to get attention - a bestiality sequence, a pedophilia sequence, scattered racist humor - is unfathomably dumb, and worse, it's lazy. Fear often masquerades as bravery. Look hard at this book - whenever the author gets worried about plot, he puts something shocking in, because he is insecure about his character's motivations. The transgressive sections of the novel show a writer who resorts to slight-of-hand. But the tragedy is that the writing beneath, and the character work, did not need to be concealed.

At one point, the lead finds a big ornate volume of Marquis de Sade's works, but he later reveals that he prefers Arthur Conan Doyle. It was the truest insight of this frustratingly good novel.

[Hanneke · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is the saddest and most tragic novel by Houellebecq I have read so far. Houellebecq seemed to have lost the bite of his provocative aggressiveness in this novel and although we readers got used to it and found it amusing (at least I did), I must say it really moved me to read this unusually compassionate novel by him. He still has plenty of aggravating and sharp things to say, so we don’t have to worry there’s nothing left to chuckle over! I hope he will continue in this new voice. I am perhaps mistaken, but it seems that he is finally trying to establish some connection to his readers instead of constantly slapping them around the head.

[Orsodimondo · Rating 5 out of 5]

IL GIORNO COME SEMPRE SARÀ



Il bel tempo verrà. È il motto di una famiglia aristocratica che fa fugace apparizione in queste pagine.
Pagine che, al contrario, non lasciano affatto presagire bel tempo: leggendo questo Houellebecq è difficile credere che il bel tempo arriverà.
Questo motto, “il bel tempo verrà”, mi ha fatto pensare al verso di una canzone che amo molto, che ho usato come titolo a queste mie note di lettura.
Ma anche in questo caso, errore: Houellebecq non lascia speranza, queste sue pagine non fanno proprio credere che ci sarà un altro giorno. La notte regna sovrana.



L’ho amato più di Le particelle elementari? Non lo so, forse sì, è comunque una bella gara.
Meno interessato all’aspetto pornografico, meno cinico – ma Houellebecq è davvero cinico? A me viene da pensare che sia soprattutto disincanto, non cinismo – un altro protagonista nel mezzo del cammino di sua vita (a metà dei suoi quaranta), questa volta schiettamente depresso – tanto da far ricorso a psicofarmaci, a una piccola compressa bianca, ovale, divisibile - ripercorre la sua vita, ricorda, insegue le donne che hanno marcato e marchiato il suo passato, l’amico, l’unico, i luoghi (la provincia francese occidentale a ridosso dell’Atlantico, la Normandia), e si prepara a morire di tristezza. Con un aiutino.
Quel genere di aiutino che a me ogni volta ricorda la memorabile scena del film che ha lanciato Mathieu Kassovitz come regista (1995, La haine – L’odio). Cito:
Questa è la storia di un uomo che cade da un palazzo di cinquanta piani. Mano a mano che cadendo passa da un piano all'altro, il tizio, per farsi coraggio, si ripete: "Fino a qui tutto bene. Fino a qui tutto bene. Fino a qui tutto bene." Il problema non è la caduta, ma l'atterraggio.



Scrive Houellebecq altrove: Su questo tema dell’amore perduto, e del rimpianto di averlo perduto esclusivamente per propria colpa, sarei poi tornato in modo più ossessivo nel mio romanzo successivo, Serotonina.
Come racconta bene l’amore e le donne amate Houellebecq! Chi lo direbbe mai.
Ho conosciuto la felicità, so cos’è, posso parlarne con competenza, e conosco anche la sua fine, ciò che ne deriva di solito.
E sa raccontare come pochi la solitudine, l’inutilità dei sogni, la vecchiaia (anche se i suoi protagonisti vecchi non sono), il peso dell’esserci, morire di tristezza, l’assurdità del meccanismo chiamato lavoro…
Non mi sarei mai sognato di dire che Dio mi aveva dato una natura molto complessa. Dio mi aveva dato una natura semplice, infinitamente semplice a mio parere, era semmai il mondo intorno a me a essere diventato complesso, e a quel punto avevo raggiunto un gradi di complessità del mondo troppo alto, non riuscivo più ad accettare la complessità del mondo in cui ero immerso, e così il mio comportamento, che non sto cercando di giustificare, è diventato incomprensibile, scioccante ed erratico.
D’altra parte se il farmaco di ultima generazione che dovrebbe risolvere il problema, in grado di stimolare la serotonina, l’ormone della felicità, ha come effetto collaterale di impedire la sintesi del testosterone, causando la perdita totale del desiderio sessuale e condannando chi ne fa uso all’impotenza… Scusate il disturbo.

[Agnieszka · Rating 4 out of 5]

Suprisingly touching and perceptive novel. Don't get me wrong, I do think Houellebecq is a very skilful writer, his novels are linguistically perfect but he himself a bit aloof and distanced. It took me some time/books to get used to him and by then I could see a provocateur, enfant terrible of French literature, someone with pleasure stirring up a hornet's nest. I saw him criticised from right to left. For misogyny, pornography, aggressiveness, amorality, cynicism and misanthropy. But this ? Maybe with age Houellebecq just got softy or simply warmed to fellow human being. Because he's compassionate, he's emphatetic, he's ... humane here. And I liked him in that new scene a lot. I do hope my serotonin level is a bit higher than the main protagonist of the novel, Florent-Claude Labrouste, has it. But, man, how I understand that guy. How I can relate to his sense of defeat and failure, how often I put on my face smile number four and go to work, how frequently I feel forced to pretend everything’s fine and how tired of that I am. Houellebecq has written very sad novel, depressing even, on pervasive sadness, solitude and slow dying. You may disagree with the author's statements on human condition and modern society but he can be very observant indeed, you have to give him that. Someone pointed in their review that new born babies have the highest level of happiness hormon. It can't be a coincidence, don't you think?

[Vicky "phenkos" · Rating 2 out of 5]

I think I'm going to create a new shelf entitled 'pornography with pretentions'. No, God forbid, because I'd risk incurring the wrath of the brigade who understand good literature and are not going to be put off by a few manifestations of misogyny or a dozen half-naked women swaying their arses around in search of a good c*ck that the hero of the book is happy to point their way. Or rather, not is, was. Alas, not any more. What a predicament! What a sad state of affairs. Definitely worth 320 pages (in the Penguin edition; in my epub edition borrowed from the local library, 490 excruciating pages)...

But really, how can anyone not sympathise with the plight of a 46-year-old man who cannot get it up anymore, especially after he is prescribed Captorix (a medication based on serotonin, hence the title) for treating depression? Depression, yes, the bane of middle-aged Western men, who we should all feel sorry for. Sorry for their wasted lives, for their lost loves (i.e. the women who they alienated by doing precisely what their nature as men asks them to do, i.e. f**k around as much as they can).

But how can one not admire Houellebecq's eloquence, his subtlety of expression, which captures so elegantly the complex emotions of his hero, a man who understands so very well the problems that the EU has caused to the farmers of France with its intransigence on milk quotas, its heavy handedness when it comes to the changing landscape of French agriculture -- policies that literally destroy lives for the sake of a failed ideology, free trade? Yes, of course, one can admire that; except that the hero is basically a fraud who feels for the sons of France whilst at the same time working for Monsanto and the French ministry of agriculture and is keen to show environmentalists the error of their ways.

Is there any integrity there? It seems not. Not because writers cannot assume different personas and populate different worlds but because Houellebecq's hero seems little more than a vindication of the average misogynistic man who sees women only as p***y and complex socio-political problems as something that can be milked for the sake of generating a nice stream of income. As James Lasdun put it in his review of the book in the Guardian, "To some extent one reads Houellebecq precisely for his willingness to risk being loathed. The danger, amplified with every success, is that the self-shaming becomes a manner, a formula. Shock is a tricky commodity for an author to trade in over the long term, and it has to be said that the first third of his new novel, Serotonin, reads like an object lesson in the law of diminishing returns". Diminishing returns, indeed...

But, I'm sure there is an objection here: an author is not his hero, the narrator does not necessarily express the views of the author, indeed by inhabiting the mind of a unlikeable man, an author can make valuable points about the post-modern predicament, the way we live now, etc., etc. Oh, how naive I've been. How very naive, not to have understood the basics of literary theory. Well, I'm going to present a series of quotes from the book and if you think that there's anything exquisitely literary about them, I stand to be corrected. Be warned, though. Read on at your peril.

I found myself constantly in a situation of free choice between three holes and how many women can you say that about?

The effect of those few words was magical: I immediately felt that she was reassured, nearly everyone always prefers blaming the other person's anti-depressants rather than their own rolls of fat.

What she needed was ordinary conjugal affection and more immediately a cock in her cunt, but that was precisely what was no longer possible for her.

either way I was sure that her pussy had remained wettable for a long time, so come on, she hadn't had that bad a life.

There was just the matter of the girl who couldn't remember if she'd agreed to be fucked in the arse.

Oh, yes, I forgot. I'm a prude.

[Manny · Rating 4 out of 5]

[Before reading]

Celebrity Death Match Special: Sérotonine versus Snow White

Payot! Payot!
It's off to shop we go!
With a hammer and a pick and Houellebecq's dick
Payot!
Payot, Payot, Payot!

Winner: the inevitable collapse of Western society
_______________________________

[After reading]

As usual, the idiots who just flick through the pages looking for things to get agitated about have found passages to fill up their vacuous articles, and you will see ugly woman academics who have made a profession out of arguing that most normal male behaviour is morally wrong complaining that the book, for example, contains detailed descriptions of girls being fucked by two dogs at once, or what you will see if you watch a piece of amateur child pornography; naturally one expects this, it's unfair to blame them, perhaps there is a clause in their contracts which obliges them to write this kind of piece, or more likely they live in perpetual fear that a jealous rival will denounce them for being insufficiently in tune with whatever dogma is currently dominating the narrow circle they inhabit and cut off access to the specialised and unenjoyable kind of sex their beliefs oblige them to practice. But I digress, in fact Houellebecq's latest book is a rather good psychological novel which often manages to be, I expect this to shock the usual suspects even more, insightful, and, not too strong a word, moving; I could go into details, but having got past the sex I imagine that virtually everyone will by now have stopped reading, so, all things considered, it seems to me that I might as well save myself the trouble and stop here. Thank you.

[İntellecta · Rating 3 out of 5]

Serotonin" by Michel Houellebecq
The protagonist of the novel is the 46-year-old Florent-Claude Labrouste, an advisor to the Agriculture Department, suffering from depression and taking Captorix (fictitious antidepressant). The life story is accompanied by numerous political and social changes in France. Linguistically very impressive again, the plot here is the language. I like Houllebecq's amazing writing style, and consider him an interesting author! His novels are essentially very similar. What bothered me was that the protagonist described sodomic or pedophile practices, but he lacks critical distance from these incidents. Serotonin is an extremely entertaining novel, apart from a part of disgusting sex stories.

[Mimi · Rating 2 out of 5]

Reading this book reminded me of the time I sat next to the edgy kid in class, who kept trying to shock me by bringing up the weird porn he watched.

Maybe reading too many books by men trying to out-crass one another has ruined me, but someone yelling, "Pedophilia! And also bestiality! And have you heard about this fun thing called racism? Also misogyny!" at me no longer shocks or impresses me.

[Metodi Markov · Rating 5 out of 5]

Мосю Уелбек е последният сладкодумен бард, възпяващ умиращата мъжественост на континентална Европа.

Престъпление, което естествено не може да му бъде простено по никакъв начин от прекалено либералните и леви наследници на Третата френска република. С последвалите 4-та и 5-та май никой не се гордее особенно.

Парадоксално, той би бил разбран отлично в гетата, в капсулираните мюсюлмански анклави, сред делириумните за слава и джихад трето поколение "французи", ако те все пак биха си направили труда да вникнат в литературата и тезите му...

Имаме анонимен разкавач на 46 години, загубил желанието си за живот, защото не е обичан. Но обективно погледнато, той няма и защо да бъде обичан. Спускането по хълма за него е започнало отдавна, Уелбек ни превежда през връзките му с няколко жени, дисекцията на отношенията и провалите е ясно предадена и даже е посочен втори шанс (много популярен в Западна Европа в последните петдесетина години - молдовка, африканка, бедна латино или азиатка, вярна до гроб и осигуряваща нечуван комфорт на лабилното мъжко его), от който обаче той не желае да се възползва. Избира друг вариант - бягство, в което не е преследван.

Истината е нелицеприятна, затова всички гърмят по вестителя ѝ на воля, е някои предпочитат собствената си глава, далеч по-удобна цел, при един доказано вече съсипан живот. Петел с клюмнал гребен е вече модерна метафора и реалност, заслужила да стои на корицата на този силен и стилен модерен роман, спирала без изход.

Какво би възпряло мъж на средна възраст да изхвърли през прозореца много по-младата си секси, но някак андрогенна японска приятелка - фактът, че ще лежи поне 17 години и че няма да може да избира от 14-те налични вида хумус в супермаркета, както и че някога е обичал да се разхожда в гората, а в затвора това няма да е възможно...

P.S. Чувствам обаче едно вяло отношение към текста, до степен на нежелание да се сроди с българския. И макар темата да е благодатна, остава неприятен, престоял послевкус... Трупат се неподхдящи думички и лавината бавно се откъсва от ската, за да помете всичко. Или ми харесват повече преводите на Красимир Петров.

Например, във Франция има два града Кан, имената на които се изписват различно, а и в произношението им има лека разлика. Защо да си дават труд да ни обяснят поне в бележка, за какво иде реч? На български този в Нормандия е известен като Каен. Отделно съм чувал французи да го произнасят Кон.

Любопитно и иронично е, че наскоро писателят се ожени тайно, за своя доста по-млада съседка - японка. Това му е трети брак - вероятно е твърдо решен да опита от собствената си рецепта за щастие. 😊

[Luna Miguel · Rating 3 out of 5]

RESEÑA:
*Bogavantes, pollas de perro y un chaleco amarillo: lo peor mejor de Michel Houellebecq*

«¿De verdad hay que ser tan explícito?» (Michel Houellebecq, ‘Serotonina’)


Apenas lleva unos días en manos de periodistas y críticos y la nueva novela de Michel Houellebecq vuelve a convertirse en ese libro del que tienes que estar o a favor o en contra, probablemente con los más pobres argumentos en cada uno de los lados. Serotonina sale pasado mañana a la venta en Francia y el día 9 en España, pero las reseñas ya se amontonan en la prensa especializada, en Twitter y en Goodreads. Lanzar en Navidad lo nuevo de Houellebecq a la prensa ha sido casi como tirar el hueso que todos queríamos morder, con las teclas del ordenador preparadas para poner el grito en el cielo o para buscar halagos incluso si sabemos que nuestro narrador francés predilecto nos ha decepcionado un poquito.

¿Veis? “Poquito”.

No me atrevo a decir que he detestado Serotonina, entre otras cosas porque no tengo ni idea de si lo he hecho. Tampoco sé si me ha gustado. Tampoco sabría decir con exactitud qué es lo que me ha aburrido más de la novela, o qué es lo que me ha emocionado más, porque de lo que sí estoy segura es de que me he emocionado mucho, y de que me he aburrido mucho. Casi tanto como cuando leía algunos de los experimentos de las autoras y autores de la Alt Lit estadounidense, esos escritores que tomaban antidepresivos y escribían sobre el tedio o, más bien, desde el tedio, mencionando un montón de marcas de ropa y de comida, hablando del porno que consumían en Internet o de la imposibilidad de ser felices como millennials que eran.

Pero Houellebecq no es millennial.

Para nada es millennial. Su protagonista tampoco — le queda poco para los 50, en esa edad “tan mala”, dice, a la que Baudelaire murió — . Y sin embargo su narrador escribe exactamente desde ese sentimiento apesadumbrado, drogado, descriptivo en los detalles más estúpidos, entretenido en el product placement de los trajes de The Kooples, el agua Volvic o las maletas Samsonite, obsesionado con el sexo desde su torpeza y perdido en un mundo en el que se le exigen demasiadas cosas por ser hombre, cosas que él, por supuesto, jamás llegará a cumplir. Así, a través de él, de su asquerosidad, de su misoginia, de su infantilismo, de su parálisis, de su asco a la vida, de sus atracones de bogavante y vino Chablis, de sus intentos por hacerse el interesante por ver porno supuestamente transgresor, o hasta de su piel quemada por el sol de El Alquián… a través de todo eso, decía, Michel Houellebecq consigue crear un personaje que al cerrar el libro te hace pensar en que quizá el asqueroso, el burdo, el glotón, el impotente o el deprimido seas tú y solamente tú.

¿Ya me la ha vuelto a colar?, me preguntaba conforme avanzaba en la destartalada historia de este hombre y sus idas y venidas con las mujeres y con su decepcionante vida laboral en la Francia de Macron.

¿Me ha vuelto a joder como con sus poemas de pollas?

¿Me ha vuelto a engañar como con la muerte en El mapa y el territorio?

¿Va a volver a hacer que entre sus lectores nos pelemos como con Sumisión, con eso de que es islamófobo pero que en realidad luego no lo era, o con lo de que vaya misógino pero que en realidad luego sólo era un juego para enseñarnos que los machistas y los racistas eran otros?

A Michel Houellebecq se le dan muy bien engañar. Es un buen narrador y es un buen mentiroso. A veces para ser una cosa necesitas ser también la otra. Lo que pasa es que en Serotonina Houellebecq miente más que narra. Si la historia no fuera tan lenta, si no se desinflara siempre que parecía que iba a ser grande — sé en que metáfora estáis pensando, pero no — , si no hubiera alargado hasta las 300 páginas algo que quizá podía habernos contado de una manera más pulcra — y tampoco me refiero a esa pulcritud, porque a mí me gusta leer lo que sus personajes piensan sobre las carnes elásticas de los chochos — , si no hubiera desdeñado el poder de las tres historias que aquí narraba: la de las huelgas de los trabajadores en Francia, la de los fracasos amorosos con mujeres que siempre eran mil veces mejores que su protagonista, o incluso la de la imposibilidad de ser un hombre feliz hoy que precisamente la masculinidad de siempre vive su ocaso… Si no hubiera cedido tanto al espacio o a la provocación y hubiera tomado todo lo que sabe hacer maravillosamente, habría construido la mejor de sus novelas.

La portada de la edición de Anagrama nos da muchas pistas sobre lo que el lector va encontrar. Un globo pinchado que no llega a pincharse. Un globo que se mantiene robusto a pesar de sus errores. Un globo que es rosa como la feminidad que él mismo repudia pero que quiere entender y alcanzar aunque él, viejo no-millennial, no tenga ni idea de cómo enfrentarse a los tiempos que le tocan.

No sé. Tal vez sí estemos ante lo mejor de Michel Houellebecq. Tal vez lo mejor que podía hacer es hacer lo peor. Y no lo digo como jueguito para salvarlo de nada. Lo digo porque sé qué retorcido es y cómo brilla cuando consigue curvarse. Por eso, para resumiros lo que pienso de Serotonina voy a recuperar una frase que está en el mismo libro, en las últimas páginas, justo antes de unas reflexiones brillantes por las que merece la pena, de verdad, quedarse hasta el final: «Así pues, estaba en el estado en el que el animal envejecido, magullado y sintiéndose moralmente herido busca una guarida donde terminar su vida». Tú lo has dicho.

[Matteo Fumagalli · Rating 5 out of 5]

Videorecensione: https://youtu.be/ryQEFgdFl9E

"In realtà Dio si occupa di noi, pensa a noi in ogni istante, e a volte ci dà direttive molto precise. Questi slanci d’amore che affluiscono nei nostri petti fino a mozzarci il fiato, queste illuminazioni, queste estasi, inspiegabili se consideriamo la nostra natura biologica, il nostro statuto di semplici primati, sono segni estremamente chiari. E oggi capisco il punto di vista del Cristo, il suo ripetuto irritarsi di fronte all’insensibilità dei cuori: hanno tutti i segni, e non ne tengono conto."

Houellebecq è l'unico che mi fa appassionare a protagonisti più sgradevoli che mai. Bellissimo romanzo: vertiginoso, complesso, cinico.

FUNNY FACT: C'è un momento in cui un personaggio afferma con trasporto che il disco con la mucca dei Pink Floyd sia "Ummagumma". Non mi è chiaro se sia uno refuso - scivolone o se Houellebecq ci abbia presi in giro subdolamente.

[Tommi · Rating 2 out of 5]

The narrator of Serotonin is uncomfortable company, not just because he tells tasteless stories for shock value, but mainly because he reminds me of a certain type of adult men who refuse to grow up. The sort of people who wallow in their life-long grudges and dress it as some kind of ‘deep and sexy nihilism’. The people who take a decisive stance against political correctness in the name of free speech but whose attacks in fact have more to do with teenage cynicism. The people whose notion of sex has more to do with porn addiction. What makes it worse here, in Houellebecq’s novel, is how it seems the author is not that different from the narrator. But I don’t know for sure, since this is my first Houellebecq novel. This is just my impression based on a reading of Serotonin, and while it wasn’t a particularly enjoyable read (plus I find the story unevenly structured throughout), it certainly gave me a lot to think about. I am once again reminded why I sometimes enjoy reading prize lists: they nudge me to read beyond comfort zones.

[Cláudia Azevedo · Rating 4 out of 5]

Senti repulsa, inicialmente. Pareceu-me que toda a narrativa era de uma imensa frivolidade. A conselho da Raquel Correia, insisti e ainda bem porque agora vejo Serotonina como uma peça documental, uma excelente ilustração de uma época, daquilo a que, em Sociologia, se designa por "tempo sensológico, de simulacros, de meios sem fins, um tempo trágico" (Martins, Moisés, 2011).
Aqui, o tempo do trágico é o tempo das contradições sem um final feliz, por oposição ao tempo dramático, em que das contradições resulta a redenção.
O nosso personagem principal, um agrónomo com os seus 46 anos e uma boa posição social que lhe permite estabelecer relações assimétricas, representa a atmosfera sensitiva e libidinal, em que o sexo é uma obsessão e flagrantemente aberrante.
Aliás, o sexo é a única forma de comunicação conhecida. A imagem substitui a razão. O casal não é um, mas fragmentado, múltiplo.
A tecnologia, que significa a supremacia do número sobre a palavra, está omnipresente: é no computador que reside a verdade sobre a companheira atual de Florent, é nele que confirma os atos pedófilos de um vizinho ocasional, que não denuncia, é na televisão que este encontra forma de sentir que ainda pertence a um coletivo.
Nada apela a algum "sentido de comunidade". Nem a luta do seu melhor amigo contra as quotas de produção de leite que o arruínam.
Mas a tecnologia é também a biomedicina, a ilusão de que uns comprimidos fabricados em grande escala poderão suprir falhas orgânicas e tirar o indivíduo da depressão em que se afunda.
A par, na cidade fruto do capitalismo, tudo apela à sofreguidão do consumo. Não resta tempo nem espaço para a cidadania nesta voragem, nesta intempestividade.
Curiosa a forma como, quase no final, o protagonista encontra consolo em livros. Vislumbramos alguma esperança nessa nova conexão.
Mas a redenção não se consuma, a depressão que a tecnologia não curou escancara a porta ao suicídio, a um fim sem teleologia, a um fim sem fim em si mesmo.
A última página é assombrosa. Se ele apenas soubesse... Se todos nós apenas soubéssemos reconhecer os sinais...

[capobanda · Rating 4 out of 5]

Non date retta a quelli che dicono che in Serotonina Houellebecq ha profetizzato le rivolte francesi in corso, è una parte del libro assolutamente marginale; semplicemente si è guardato intorno, ed essendo una persona che privilegia la verità sulle buone intenzioni ha tratto alcune conclusioni.
Il romanzo è bello di nebbia e di mucche, di acqua e di buio, complessivamente molto molto triste e parla dell’amore, dell’amore di coppia. O meglio, di quanto l’illusione della libertà totale dell’individuo, dell’accesso a scelte illimitate nella giovinezza possa tradursi -anche abbastanza presto- in una condizione esistenziale totalmente insopportabile.
Per chi aveva cominciato attribuendo all’estensione del dominio della lotta la sofferenza degli individui, la conclusione è paradossale e molto amara: potevi scegliere, ma non l’hai capito in tempo.
Ultima pagina stupenda, scrittura -al solito- bellissima.


P.S. Per chi lo ha letto: pare strano trattandosi di due uomini completamente diversi, ma mi ha fatto pensare a Uwe Timm a al suo “La volatilità dell’amore”.

[cypt · Rating 4 out of 5]

Žiauriai norėjau nekęsti šitos knygos, pradėjau skaityti, nekenčiau šitos knygos, nekęsdama stūmiau ant šitos knygos. Iš tiesų tiek, kiek jo skaičiau, Houellebecqas užknisa (Elementarių dalelių net nesugebėjau pabaigt) - tas vis vienodas pasakotojo balsas, tas zanūdiškumas ir užsizanūdinimas pasauliu... ak, pasauliu... kuriame seksas nebeteikia malonumo, o gal ir sekso visai nėra... kuriame politika... taip, politika... na, vyksta joje dalykai, sukilimai, gaisrai, protestai... ūkininkai užtveria kelius, nes europos sąjunga per mažu įkainiu superka pieną... taip... na tai miršta kažkas, kaip visada per tokius įvykius, bet sistema vis tiek nugali, taip... gerai kad yra sąskaitoj pinigų, paveldėta iš tėvų, ot tai gerai, nes jei reiktų dirbt... tokiom sąlygom, tokiam pasauly... ir taip visi draugai žlugę, nelaimingi, kur tie laikai, kai buvom univere, jauni, tikintys ateitimi, turintys planą, taip... taip... gyvenimas, taip... gyvenimas... hmmmmmm.

Ir tik paskutiniai gal 20 psl kažkaip sustatė viską į vietas. Juose nieko neįvyksta, nenusileidžia iš dangaus deivė ir neapverčia pasaulio, bet kažkokiu būdu - keistai - staiga atsiduri akistatoje su tuo pasakotoju, akistatoje su gyvenimu, kuris taip savaimiškai vyniojasi, o pasakotojas niekaip nesupranta - nu nafik. Ir staiga, kai atsiduri toje akistatoje, supranti, kad ir tu nesupranti. Gal čia tas estetinis aktas, kaip rašė Paulius Jevsejevas - esi, kartu su pasakotoju, nusviesta į visišką nykybę, piktiniesi tuo ir smerki tą nykybę ir jo paties nykumą (ir tokį piktybinį, ne kokį nuoširdžiai nustebinantį kaip pas Camus), bet kartu suvoki, kad ir pati joje esi. Bet gal tik kol skaitai knygą? Gal šiaip tavo gyvenimas, kitaip nei turbūt visų H personažų, prasmingas, tikslingas? Tie paskutiniai knygos puslapiai net nerimą kelia, taip nori paraleliai skaitydama vis kabintis už minties, kad tu tai jau pažįsti prasmę, tikslą, nesivynioji kaip tumbleweed per dykumą b lygio vesterne.

Tuo, kad tas prasmės suradimas nėra toks jau savaime suprantamas dalykas net jei ant to nuolatos dirbi, ieškai pagalbos, knyga man priminė A Little Life (nekenčiu). Tik H, kitaip nei littlaif, nerodo to kaip šiurpinančio, baugaus, skausmingo, pasaulį žlugdančio dalyko. Gal tuo paprastumu ir kasdieniškumu labiausiai ir prislegia. Būtent šitam judesy supratau, kodėl visi kalba, kad jis rodo europiečių žlugimą, saulėlydį. Ne tai kad pati taip galvočiau ar jausčiaus (vis kabinuos už minties, kad ne, ne!) - bet jis tikrai, nekalbėdamas apie žmogaus buvimą pasaulyje kaip keistą, nejaukų dalyką, jį labai taikliai priverčia pamatyt.

Vis tiek žiauriai užknisa, taip sunku skaityt, taip nemalonu, taip biesina, ugghhhh. Net nė vieno kampučio neužsilenkiau, ką pacituoti, nes jis toks zanūda. Net porno ir pedofilinės scenos beveik jau ir nepiktina - ant tiek zanūdna. Turbūt tas ir baisiausia, toks veidrodis kaip per Castellucci spektaklį.

Geras rašytojas, žiauriai knisa, nekenčiu.

[Paul Fulcher · Rating 1 out of 5]

With apologies to Gwen Stefani: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kgjkt...

Few times I've been around that track
So it's not just gonna happen like that.

This is my 5th Houellebecq novel and his 8th.

In the best, and most quoted, line in Shaun Whitehead’s translation of Michel Houllebecq’s Serotonin, the narrator argues that, for Western culture, the third millennium is one millennium too many, in the way that boxers have one fight too many, which is perhaps the overriding theme of all of the author’s works.

When I read Houellebecq’s previous novel – Submission translated by Lori Stein – it felt like a boxer taking on an easy fight for the purse money, rather than taking on a challenge. From my review of Submission:

Overall - frustrating. The novel has the typical issues with any of his books - the sexism and general misanthropy, the flat prose - but that's part of the package and I have read and really enjoyed both The Elementary Particles and The Map and the Territory. And the Huysmans angle here could have made this a great novel - until Houellebecq decided to dumb the whole concept down to generate sales.

And this one feels like one novel too many, with a punch-drunk novelist lashing out, but his trademark shots no longer landing.

I heard that you were talking shit
And you didn't think that I would hear it
People hear you talking like that, getting everybody fired up.

At one point in the novel, the narrator comes across a part-refurbished ancient chateau: It was less of a castle than an incoherent collection of buildings in various states of conservation, but it was hard to reconstruct the initial plan.

Which again feels like the novel the reader is reading. Much of the focus of the reception of the novel has been on the prescient story of the protesting farmers, anticipating the Gilets Jaunes movement. But this is dealt with in less than 10% of the novel, inserted rather randomly 2/3rds of the way through, and a novel featuring French farmers railing against the withdrawal of subsidies isn’t so much prescient as historical.

And the attempts to fire-up the audience feel increasingly pathetic. There is one particular, completely out of context, scene involving a German tourist and a 10-year old girl that is very hard to excuse.

The opening of the novel – which explains the narrator ditching his current girlfriend – appears included simply to add some canine pornographic detail that even the narrator admits I thought contributed little to the overall tale.

'Cause I ain't no Houellebecq guy
I ain't no Houellebecq guy.

Overall, a bizarre inclusion on the Booker International List

This Guardian review – from a reader new to Houellebecq – is on the nail: https://www.theguardian.com/books/201...

[Caro the Helmet Lady · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is probably the least dick-centered book by Houellebecq I've read so far. I mean - no worries, the Dick - it still exists, right there over the horizon, you won't miss it, but it's rather a B-rate star in this movie. In the first place it's a book about depression and late middle life crisis, and about lost opportunities because of being a light headed male bimbo of sorts, being now homesick for lost love and lonely oh, so lonely and only then about "basic male needs" that are usually very important in earlier H.'s books. And then there's Europe, France and globalization, and how we're all slowly but surely going to hell.
It's such a sad book. I always find Houellebecq's books sad but since this one is the least "pervy" it suddenly hits straight to the heart very strongly. Even though it is slower than everything I've read by him before, this one is probably the most sincere.

[Sofia · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Οι άνθρωποι δεν ακούνε ποτέ τις συμβουλές που τους δίνουν, κι οταν ζητάνε συμβουλές είναι ακριβώς για να μην τις ακολουθήσουν, για να επιβεβαιώσουν απο μια εξω��ερική φωνή πως έχουν όντως μπει σε μια δίνη καταστροφής και θανάτου και οι συμβουλές που τους δίνεις παίζουν γι'αυτούς τον ρόλο ακριβώς του χορού της τραγωδίας, επιβεβαιώνουν στον ήρωα πως έχει πάρει τον δρόμο του ολέθρου και του χάους."
Τόση ομορφιά λέξεων για τόσο άσχημες καταστάσεις, μόνο ο Houellebecq.

[Maria Bikaki · Rating 4 out of 5]

Το συγκεικριμένο βιβλίο το είχα κοζάρει πάνω από ένα χρόνο. Με δεδομένο ότι με όλα αυτά που περνάμε τα επίπεδα σεροτονίνης μου είναι ιδιαιτέρως χαμηλά σκέφτηκα ότι ήρθε η ώρα του να το διαβάσω γιατί εδώ που φτάσαμε καλύτερα να έρθει η ώρα του Ουελμπέκ παρά η δικιά μου.
Πολύ σοφή βέβαια η επιλογή να διαβάζεις ένα βιβλίο για ένα απολύτως καταθλιπτικό και μίζερο ήρωα ο οποίος ουσιαστικά μέσα από το βιβλίο του προσπαθεί να σου πει ότι κυρία μου ο κόσμος έτσι όπως τον ήξερες πάει μας χαιρέτησε. Μπροστά ήσουν φίλε μου πες μας και μας (παίζει μουσική υπόκρουση Αλκίνοος Ιωαννίδης «Μα αυτός ο κόσμος που αλλάζει πως σου μοιάζει πως σου μοιάζει)
Δεν έχω ξαναδιαβάσει τον συγγραφέα και απ’ ότι καταλαβαίνω μάλλον το έχει σύστημα να χρησιμοποιεί μίζερους ήρωες στα βιβλία του και κρίνοντας από τη σεροτονίνη τα βιβλία του μάλλον δεν είναι για όλους. Πάμε πιο αναλυτικά
Ο πρωταγωνιστής της ιστορίας μας βαθιά καταθλιπτικός άνθρωπος ξεκινά την αφήγηση του με σκοπό να μας διηγηθεί κάποιες στιγμές από τη ζωή του, τους έρωτες του, τη σεξουαλική του δυσλειτουργία με τις απαραίτητες δόσεις ματαιότητας και κυνισμού. Μοιάζει σαν ένας άνθρωπος που απέξω μπορεί να ναι ζωντανός αλλά από μέσα πεθαμένος. Καλύτερος φίλος του το Carpotix, χαπάκι για την κατάθλιψη που τα καταπίνει σαν τις καραμέλες αλλά στο τέλος της μέρας τίποτα δεν τον γιατρεύει, τίποτα δεν τον κάνει πάλι και με τίποτα δεν είναι ευχαριστημένος (πολύ φίλος μου). Καθώς προχωράει το βιβλίο νιώθεις ότι στην πραγματικότητα αυτός ο ήρωας μάλλον επιδιώκει αυτό που του συμβαίνει παρά ψάχνει τρόπους να λυτρωθεί (εντάξει πάρα πολύ φίλος). Κατά τα φαινόμενα άλλωστε δεν έχει πρακτικά κάποιον πολύ καλό λόγο για να είναι δυστυχισμένος.

«Κανείς πια δεν μπορεί να 'ναι ευτυχισμένος στη Δύση, ποτέ πια, πρέπει σήμερα να θεωρούμε την ευτυχία αρχαίο όνειρο, απλώς δεν υπάρχουν πια οι ιστορικές συνθήκες για την εμφάνισή της»

Τουτέστιν έχουμε και λέμε. Πικρόχολος, απαισιόδοξος, μισογύνης ήρωας που σχολιάζει τη ζωή, πετάει που και που ορισμένα ωραία τσιτάτα για τη γυναίκα, τον έρωτα, τις σχέσεις γεμάτος πεσιμισμό, κυνικότητα σε εξοριγιστικό βαθμό. Τον αγαπώ.
Και σας το λεω δηλαδή βάζω το χέρι στη φωτιά κατά βάθος είναι γλυκός και αισιόδοξος άνθρωπος εσείς δεν ξέρετε.
Μου άρεσε πολύ η σεροτονίνη αν είστε στα ντάουν σας και θέλετε να αφοσιωθείτε σε κάτι πιο ανάλαφρο η Σεροτονίνη ΔΕΝ είναι για σας εκτός αν σας περισσεύει και σας ένα κουτί Carpotix.

[MJ Nicholls · Rating 3 out of 5]

A botched attempt at hot-topic triggering and snowflake-baiting turns into a meandering and unconvincing depiction of depression with some B+ black humour and snark.

[Lyubov · Rating 4 out of 5]

Прочетох "Серотонин" на Мишел Уелбек преди известно време. И все не можех да се наканя да напиша каквото и да било за романа, защото е сложен, тежък, на моменти безмилостен като острие на бръснач. Говорим за Улебек все пак. Замислих се обаче, че ако скоро не събера мислите си за тази книга, така и няма да споделя нищо за нея. А това не е правилно. За „Серотонин“ трябва да се говори. Дори неумело и хаотично, както ще го направя аз.

За мен това е най-тъжният роман на Уелбек, който далеч не е известен с веселите си сюжети. Доколко е автобиографичен, както се намеква на доста места, не се наемам да гадая. Само се надявам самият автор все пак да не е стигал до подобно дъно на безсмислието на съществуването. Главният герой е средностатистически, с нищо забележим служител в Министерството на земеделието, натоварен с уж значими, но реално жестоко тривиални задачи. Любовницата му е японка, което предполага доза изящна екзотика, но реално се оказва поредният товар на ежедневието му. И той решава да си вземе почивка от абсолютно всичко, почивка от самия живот. Прочетох, че „Серотонин“ е роман за безсилието, но според мен е по-скоро роман за абдикацията от чувствата. Ако се осмелите да го разгърнете ще прочетете най-безмилостно ироничните и честни разсъждения на тема депресия, безразличие и липса на смисъл, които са запечатвани на белия лист. Изисква се определена нагласа, а и цялостен светоглед, за да ги оцените, да ги приемете без да хукнете към най-близкия лекар за рецепта за антидепресанти, но ако го направите съм сигурна, че те ще ви помогнат в част от преодоляването на личните демони, с които всеки се бори ежедневно, независимо дали си го признава или не. И в това е най-голямата сила на "Серотонин".

Не бих казала, че това е книга, провиждаща появата на жълтите жилетки, както упорито се твърди в някои от рецензиите за романа. Забелязала съм, че критиците си умират да вменяват на Уелбек разни пророчески дарби за бъдещи социални явления, докато той просто вади скалпела и реже човешките душа и съзнание на тънки слоеве. И след това ги подлага на безмилостна дисекция. Ако имате стомаха за това блюдо, по никакъв начин не го пропускайте.

Оставям ви с малко късче от него, защото каквото и да напиша, няма как да го кажа дори наполовина толкова добре, колкото Уелбек:

"Първите известни антидепресанти увеличават нивото на серотонин в кръвта. [...] Още от самото начало капториксът се оказа учудващо ефикасен, позволявайки на пациентите да се върнат с нова лекота към основните ритуали на нормалния живот в едно еволюирало общество (тоалет, социален живот, сведен до добросъседство, елементарни административни дейности), без да предизвиква в нито един момент, за разлика от антидепресантите от предишната генерация, склонност към самоубийство или самонараняване.

Най-честите нежелани странични ефекти на капторикса бяха гадене, изчезване на либидото, импотентност.

Гадене не бях изпитвал никога."

[To-The-Point Reviews · Rating 4 out of 5]

Man gets depressed because his girlfriend likes to fuck dogs so he goes on holiday then stalks his ex whilst momentarily contemplating killing her child.

Houellebecqian!

[Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer · Rating 3 out of 5]

Een erg goed geschreven slecht boek.

[Juan Nalerio · Rating 5 out of 5]

La última novela de Houellebecq trata sobre la derrota del ser humano frente al sistema capitalista. Éste nos lleva de la mano a la soledad y al suicidio. Sólo el amor verdadero nos podrá salvar, si lo sabemos apreciar en nuestra juventud.

El protagonista se va alienando de a poco, a medida que empieza a consumir un antidepresivo de última generación que le debería subir la serotonina, en busca como no, de la felicidad.

El libro repasa los amores y errores de este personaje, con quien fácilmente se puede identificar cualquiera de nosotros. El entorno que crea el sistema económico mundial va dejando a la deriva a los protagonistas, acabando con hombres y mujeres por igual. El ser humano, imposibilitado de cumplir sus sueños, de encontrar el amor, de llegar a la felicidad, se derrumba y sucumbe.
La prosa atrapa, el relato convence. No hay salvación. Un gran libro.

Citando a Baudelaire en el momento en que la derrota ha sido consumada: “Cuando nuestro corazón ha hecho una vez su vendimia, vivir es un mal”

Si eres joven, este libro te puede salvar, léelo.

[Laura Gotti · Rating 5 out of 5]

Quando lessi per la prima volta Houellebecq avrò avuto 25 anni, più o meno. Ne rimasi affascinata, dalla sua scrittura ipnotica, da quel suo scrivere di tutto senza sforzi, dei suo andare controcorrente, del suo sesso raccontato non per stupire o per scandalizzare ma per dare voce a quello che i suoi personaggi avevano voglia di raccontare. Il primo libro fu Piattaforma. Poi seguirono Le particelle elementari e poi tutto il resto. Tutto. Mi ha deluso solo una volta, con Sottomissione: sterile, pseudo politico e pure un po' fanatico. C'è da dire che a 25 anni non sapevo niente di lui, di lui come uomo intendo. A 44 anni ne so pure troppo, e c'è sempre questo male, questa certezza che gli scrittori e gli uomini andrebbero lasciati separati, che vado a bere una caffè con un amico, poi, quando lo leggo, diventa uno scrittore e al caffè non ci dovrei pensare più.

Aspettavo Serotonina, con curiosità e con la certezza, dopo averne letto un'anticipazione, che questa volta non mi avrebbe deluso. E non l'ha fatto. Un libro magnifico, sul disincanto, sulla vecchiaia, sugli amori che finiscono, sul desiderio che scompare, sulla ricerca dell'amore, sulla solitudine.
Avete letto altro? Sì? Allora non avete letto il libro, perché a me sta cosa del 'sì aveva previsto tutto, anche i gilet jaunes', mi fa ridere, o forse piangere, come molte delle cazzate che leggo.

"le persone costruiscono esse stesse il meccanismo della loro infelicità' ed è tutto vero. Mi fa una paura terrificante, conosciamo i meccanismo dove ci incastriamo e più passa il tempo più corriamo ad incastrarci lì. Io sono terrorizzata dal racconto di certe solitudini, perché so che potrei finirci dentro anche io, in un battito di ciglia. Perché mi piace stare da sola, rifugiarmi nei libri, studiare e anche piangermi addosso, spesso. Perché ho paura che una piccola compressa bianca, ovale, indivisibile diventi parte delle mie giornate perché a volte, è tutto difficilissimo.

E' un libro cinico, disincantato, disperato e con una pagina finale magistrale. Ho chiuso il libro stamattina all'alba e mi veniva da piangere. Anche perché a 25 anni, leggendo Piattaforma, mai avrei pensato a un grattacielo di Parigi, dove aprire una finestra potrebbe essere facilissimo.

Qualcosa di forte, un whiskey, un porto, un cognac, da buttar giù in solo colpo, tenendo in mano la seconda copia di Piattaforma che possiedo, quello arrivata anni dopo, in una stazione di Torino, con la dedica più precisa che io abbia mai ricevuto.