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Public Enemies: Dueling Writers Take On Each Other and the World
The international publishing sensation is now available in the United States—two brilliant, controversial authors confront each other and their enemies in an unforgettable exchange of letters.
In one corner, Bernard-Henri Lévy, creator of the classic Barbarism with a Human Face, dismissed by the media as a wealthy, self-promoting, arrogant do-gooder. In the other, Michel Houellebecq, bestselling author of The Elementary Particles, widely derided as a sex-obsessed racist and misogynist. What began as a secret correspondence between bitter enemies evolved into a remarkable joint personal meditation by France’s premier literary and political live wires. An instant international bestseller, Public Enemies has now been translated into English for all lovers of superb insights, scandalous opinions, and iconoclastic ideas.
In wicked, wide-ranging, and freewheeling letters, the two self-described “whipping boys” debate whether they crave disgrace or secretly have an insane desire to please. Lévy extols heroism in the face of tyranny; Houellebecq sees himself as one who would “fight little and badly.” Lévy says “life does not ‘live’” unless he can write; Houellebecq bemoans work as leaving him in such “a state of nervous exhaustion that it takes several bottles of alcohol to get out.” There are also touching and intimate exchanges on the existence of God and about their own families.
Dazzling, delightful, and provocative, Public Enemies is a death match between literary lions, remarkable men who find common ground, confident that, in the end (as Lévy puts it), “it is we who will come out on top.”
In one corner, Bernard-Henri Lévy, creator of the classic Barbarism with a Human Face, dismissed by the media as a wealthy, self-promoting, arrogant do-gooder. In the other, Michel Houellebecq, bestselling author of The Elementary Particles, widely derided as a sex-obsessed racist and misogynist. What began as a secret correspondence between bitter enemies evolved into a remarkable joint personal meditation by France’s premier literary and political live wires. An instant international bestseller, Public Enemies has now been translated into English for all lovers of superb insights, scandalous opinions, and iconoclastic ideas.
In wicked, wide-ranging, and freewheeling letters, the two self-described “whipping boys” debate whether they crave disgrace or secretly have an insane desire to please. Lévy extols heroism in the face of tyranny; Houellebecq sees himself as one who would “fight little and badly.” Lévy says “life does not ‘live’” unless he can write; Houellebecq bemoans work as leaving him in such “a state of nervous exhaustion that it takes several bottles of alcohol to get out.” There are also touching and intimate exchanges on the existence of God and about their own families.
Dazzling, delightful, and provocative, Public Enemies is a death match between literary lions, remarkable men who find common ground, confident that, in the end (as Lévy puts it), “it is we who will come out on top.”
320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2008
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1015 people want to read
About the author
Bernard-Henri Lévy
107 books240 followersBernard-Henri Lévy is a philosopher, activist, filmmaker, and author of more than thirty books including The Genius of Judaism, American Vertigo, Barbarism with a Human Face, and Who Killed Daniel Pearl? His writing has appeared extensively in publications throughout Europe and the United States. His documentaries include Peshmerga, The Battle of Mosul, The Oath of Tobruk, and Bosna! Lévy is cofounder of the antiracist group SOS Racisme and has served on diplomatic missions for the French government.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 101 reviews
February 5, 2020
Reading this book was like going to the bar with an author - Houellebecq, whose work I enjoy. But we are soon joined by another author - Levy, about whom I know nothing. The two of them proceed to ignore me completely as they discuss French writers, critics, philosophers and refer to incidents in French history. I find that I am way out of my depth.
I did enjoy some of the letters - especially the ones by Houellebeq. The ones where he discusses being hounded by critics was excellent. The one about how society is driven by a collective will which imposes its ideas on public smokers. Levy's letter about being a Jew. But mostly, I did not know what the hell they were talking about.
If you know nothing about the French literary establishment and culture, but read Houellebecq's novels because they are entertaining, avoid this book.
I did enjoy some of the letters - especially the ones by Houellebeq. The ones where he discusses being hounded by critics was excellent. The one about how society is driven by a collective will which imposes its ideas on public smokers. Levy's letter about being a Jew. But mostly, I did not know what the hell they were talking about.
If you know nothing about the French literary establishment and culture, but read Houellebecq's novels because they are entertaining, avoid this book.
December 22, 2023
Két ember, akit csak azok kötnek össze, akik gyűlölik őket. Azért, mert a „nem-tetszeni vágyás” írásaik mozgatórugója, mert sarkalatos véleményük van a világ dolgairól, de ami még ennél is fontosabb – hisz sarkalatos véleménye minden frusztrált netes trollnak van – ezt képesek szélesebb olvasóközönséghez is eljuttatni. Itt van ez a Houellebecq, akit a magyar irodalombarátoknak aligha kell bemutatni. Az „iszlámgyűlölő”, akit az alt-right hívei gyakran idéznek (miután félreértették), és akinek unott képe mára a kiábrándult értelmiségiről készült mémek alapanyaga lett. És Bernard-Henri Lévy, a „kaviárbaloldali”, a nárcisztikus filozófus, akinek (a rossz nyelvek szerint) az egójánál csak a felületessége az impozánsabb. És mivel az ellenségeim ellensége a barátom, ők erről a közös platformról kiindulva elkezdenek levelezni egymással. Mert levelezni jó. Olyan szép, klasszikus íze van.
Így első blikkre Lévy az, aki közelebb áll hozzám. Tetszik a lelkesedésre való képessége, az, hogy a médiajelenlétet eszközként felhasználva harcba száll azért, amit igaznak érez. Finanszíroz egy folyóiratot Kabulban, amit (hasraütéses becslésem szerint) kb. ötvenen olvashatnak, ez a maga látszólagos értelmetlenségében is grandiózus idea. Hisz mi ötven ember a milliókhoz képest? De annak az ötven embernek micsoda felszabadító érzés, hogy eme újságot olvasva nincsenek egyedül! Jó, hát tagadhatatlan, joggal idegesíthet minket olyasvalaki, aki a „másodszor” szó helyett inkább azt mondja: „deusio”, de hát mit tegyünk, a vágy, hogy közöljük másokkal, ismerünk idegen szavakat, sokunktól nem idegen. Mert nil humani a me alienum esse puto. Nyilvánvalóan egoista, amit csak mérsékelten tompít, hogy ezzel tisztában is van, és hajlandó önironikusan szemlélni. Ugyanakkor pont ez az egoizmus a legfontosabb fegyvere, ezzel emel falat maga és az ellenséges közvélemény közé. Magyarán szólva: gyermeki őszinteséggel tud nagy ívben tenni a negatív kritikákra.
Houellebecq nem ilyen. Ő sokkal sérülékenyebb, amitől számomra - erre nem számítottam! - szimpatikussá válik. Nála a „nem-tetszés” nem póz, hanem kvázi fizikai állapot. Végtelenül introvertált, ugyanakkor (lényéből fakadóan) folyton konfrontálódnia kell. Észre kell venni, milyen egészségtelen párosítás ez: egy ember, aki szereti a nyugalmat, a kritika fáj neki, mégis kihívja maga ellen. Ez a kombináció – mondhatni – a depresszió melegágya. Persze Houellebecqnek számos hibája van, és ez nem teszi egyszerűbbé helyzetét. Például hajlamos kemény, kendőzetlen véleményeket megformálni, majd ha ellenérvekkel találkozik, akkor a „persze erről nem tudok sokat, de azért…” mondat pajzsa mögé bújni. Éles intelligenciájával együtt olyasféle próféta ő, aki a világ megállíthatatlan elkorcsosulásáról szónokol, de az ezzel kapcsolatos megállapításait inkább intuíciói, mint racionális meglátásai formálják. (Legalábbis szerintem.) Mindazonáltal védtelensége megkapó, nem is csoda, ha ebben a levélfolyamban a sokkal áradóbb Lévyvel szemben gyakran olyan pozícióba keveredik, mintha páciens lenne egy pszichoanalitikus díványán – amely pszichoanalitikus amúgy a kelleténél több Spinozát olvasott, ráadásul az a fixa ideája, hogy minden alkalmat meg kell ragadnia, amikor magáról beszélhet, hátha ez oldja a beteg szorongását. (Ez a stratégia – magunkról beszélni – amúgy nem is olyan nagy marhaság, mint gondolnánk. Hiszen miért is beszélne Lévy Houellebecqről? Mit is tudhat Lévy Houellebecqről? Örüljünk neki, hogy nem próbálja meg megfejteni, eljátszva, hogy átlát rajta. Ha van idegesítőbb annál, aki mindig magával foglalkozik, akkor az az, aki mindig csak másokkal foglalkozik.)
Nem mondom, ez a kötet talán a kelleténél több általam ismeretlen utalást tartalmaz a francia irodalmi élet belső működéséről. Ugyanakkor helyenként olyan zsigerien őszinte (különösen Houellebecqet illetően), hogy abba bele lehet szédülni. (Én például ma jobban szeretem Houellebecqet, mint tegnapelőtt, ez egészen bizonyos.) Másfelől vannak benne pontok, amikor a két fél mintha közeledne valami kibékíthetetlen ideologikus ellentét felé, és akkor megszökik az emberben az adrenalin. No, most vesznek össze, de a párbajig! – gondoltam ilyenkor. Ám ezek a helyzetek valahogy mindig elsimulnak, feloldja őket az egymás iránt érzett tisztelet, ami nagyobb az egyet-nem-értésnél, és az, hogy végtére is több bennük a közös, mint ami nem. Mert - mint kiderül - mégsem csak az ellenségeik a közösek. Hanem az is, hogy kölcsönösen kíváncsiak egymásra. Hogy szeretnék megérteni egymást.
Így első blikkre Lévy az, aki közelebb áll hozzám. Tetszik a lelkesedésre való képessége, az, hogy a médiajelenlétet eszközként felhasználva harcba száll azért, amit igaznak érez. Finanszíroz egy folyóiratot Kabulban, amit (hasraütéses becslésem szerint) kb. ötvenen olvashatnak, ez a maga látszólagos értelmetlenségében is grandiózus idea. Hisz mi ötven ember a milliókhoz képest? De annak az ötven embernek micsoda felszabadító érzés, hogy eme újságot olvasva nincsenek egyedül! Jó, hát tagadhatatlan, joggal idegesíthet minket olyasvalaki, aki a „másodszor” szó helyett inkább azt mondja: „deusio”, de hát mit tegyünk, a vágy, hogy közöljük másokkal, ismerünk idegen szavakat, sokunktól nem idegen. Mert nil humani a me alienum esse puto. Nyilvánvalóan egoista, amit csak mérsékelten tompít, hogy ezzel tisztában is van, és hajlandó önironikusan szemlélni. Ugyanakkor pont ez az egoizmus a legfontosabb fegyvere, ezzel emel falat maga és az ellenséges közvélemény közé. Magyarán szólva: gyermeki őszinteséggel tud nagy ívben tenni a negatív kritikákra.
Houellebecq nem ilyen. Ő sokkal sérülékenyebb, amitől számomra - erre nem számítottam! - szimpatikussá válik. Nála a „nem-tetszés” nem póz, hanem kvázi fizikai állapot. Végtelenül introvertált, ugyanakkor (lényéből fakadóan) folyton konfrontálódnia kell. Észre kell venni, milyen egészségtelen párosítás ez: egy ember, aki szereti a nyugalmat, a kritika fáj neki, mégis kihívja maga ellen. Ez a kombináció – mondhatni – a depresszió melegágya. Persze Houellebecqnek számos hibája van, és ez nem teszi egyszerűbbé helyzetét. Például hajlamos kemény, kendőzetlen véleményeket megformálni, majd ha ellenérvekkel találkozik, akkor a „persze erről nem tudok sokat, de azért…” mondat pajzsa mögé bújni. Éles intelligenciájával együtt olyasféle próféta ő, aki a világ megállíthatatlan elkorcsosulásáról szónokol, de az ezzel kapcsolatos megállapításait inkább intuíciói, mint racionális meglátásai formálják. (Legalábbis szerintem.) Mindazonáltal védtelensége megkapó, nem is csoda, ha ebben a levélfolyamban a sokkal áradóbb Lévyvel szemben gyakran olyan pozícióba keveredik, mintha páciens lenne egy pszichoanalitikus díványán – amely pszichoanalitikus amúgy a kelleténél több Spinozát olvasott, ráadásul az a fixa ideája, hogy minden alkalmat meg kell ragadnia, amikor magáról beszélhet, hátha ez oldja a beteg szorongását. (Ez a stratégia – magunkról beszélni – amúgy nem is olyan nagy marhaság, mint gondolnánk. Hiszen miért is beszélne Lévy Houellebecqről? Mit is tudhat Lévy Houellebecqről? Örüljünk neki, hogy nem próbálja meg megfejteni, eljátszva, hogy átlát rajta. Ha van idegesítőbb annál, aki mindig magával foglalkozik, akkor az az, aki mindig csak másokkal foglalkozik.)
Nem mondom, ez a kötet talán a kelleténél több általam ismeretlen utalást tartalmaz a francia irodalmi élet belső működéséről. Ugyanakkor helyenként olyan zsigerien őszinte (különösen Houellebecqet illetően), hogy abba bele lehet szédülni. (Én például ma jobban szeretem Houellebecqet, mint tegnapelőtt, ez egészen bizonyos.) Másfelől vannak benne pontok, amikor a két fél mintha közeledne valami kibékíthetetlen ideologikus ellentét felé, és akkor megszökik az emberben az adrenalin. No, most vesznek össze, de a párbajig! – gondoltam ilyenkor. Ám ezek a helyzetek valahogy mindig elsimulnak, feloldja őket az egymás iránt érzett tisztelet, ami nagyobb az egyet-nem-értésnél, és az, hogy végtére is több bennük a közös, mint ami nem. Mert - mint kiderül - mégsem csak az ellenségeik a közösek. Hanem az is, hogy kölcsönösen kíváncsiak egymásra. Hogy szeretnék megérteni egymást.
March 11, 2018
"Od svih privrednih i društvenih sistema, kapitalizam je najprirodniji. Već je to samo po sebi dobar pokazatelj da je i najgori". Francusko društvo koje je Uelbeka i Levija proglasilo " državnim neprijateljima", po toj logici, mora da je najprirodbije. Naravno, ova knjiga sadrži njihov ugao gledanja, opravdanje na koje imaju potpuno pravo da iznesu kroz prepisku. Iz mog ugla, uvek se setim one liste domaćih klerofašita koji su vazda negirali da su klerofašisti zbog čega su kreirali pomenutu listu po ugledu na fašiste, dokazujući, valjda, da nisu fašisti tako što su uradili ono što su radili fašisti. Naime, radi se o listi "domaćih izdajnika", spisak na kojem su se bili našli i ljudi koji su, zaboga, svojim radom doprineli domaćoj kulturi. I oni su, kao i autori ove knjige, izdali svoju zemlju kada su odlučili da progovore o njoj.
Fun facts: volontirao sam bio u DKC-u kada je Levi bio pogođen tortom. Sutradan je, načelnik opštine Stari grad, ponovo poslao pandure zbog toga što je naslov filma, koji se tad prikazivao, glasio "bomba"(običan dokumentarac o atomskoj bombi). Panduri, jadni, znaju da su poslati bez ikavog smislenog razloga, kao što je i Ueblek prosto prihvatio da ga mrze bez ikakvog razloga.
Uelbek je nihilista, stavovima blizak desnici. Levi je, pak, snob, "utripovani" mirotvorac i aristokrata. Lično sam daleko od arisokrate, još dalje od desničarskih shvatanja, praktično na skroz drugom kraju političke i društvene orjentacije. Pa ipak, ništa od toga me nije sprečavalo da uživam u čitanju i da bolje razumem njihov status. Pre svega, dopalo mi se to koliko se razlikuju; koliko su suprotnih stavova izneli na raznorazne teme. Preporuka!
Fun facts: volontirao sam bio u DKC-u kada je Levi bio pogođen tortom. Sutradan je, načelnik opštine Stari grad, ponovo poslao pandure zbog toga što je naslov filma, koji se tad prikazivao, glasio "bomba"(običan dokumentarac o atomskoj bombi). Panduri, jadni, znaju da su poslati bez ikavog smislenog razloga, kao što je i Ueblek prosto prihvatio da ga mrze bez ikakvog razloga.
Uelbek je nihilista, stavovima blizak desnici. Levi je, pak, snob, "utripovani" mirotvorac i aristokrata. Lično sam daleko od arisokrate, još dalje od desničarskih shvatanja, praktično na skroz drugom kraju političke i društvene orjentacije. Pa ipak, ništa od toga me nije sprečavalo da uživam u čitanju i da bolje razumem njihov status. Pre svega, dopalo mi se to koliko se razlikuju; koliko su suprotnih stavova izneli na raznorazne teme. Preporuka!
October 28, 2014
Which is the greater art form, poetry or the novel? Poetry promises greater emotional rewards but is so aloof with its heart, so imposing with its past love life, that most readers would prefer the safer communicability of the novel, that place where people tend to tell you exactly how they feel. Poetry looks like an object of pity, with no one talking to her (especially when she tells you exactly how she feels), looking so isolated and alone in the corner that most readers assume she somehow deserves the little attention she's received. Most lovers of literature would probably answer "I'll take them both." But for Michel Houellebecq the question presented a terrible choice and one with real consequences. And listening to him here it sounds like he made the wrong one.
There is a surprisingly very touching moment in this exchange of letters with public intellectual Bernard-Henri Lévy where Houellebecq admits to his great regret that he can no longer attend poetry festivals when invited because of the notoriety he would bring; the purer artists presented there don't deserve the press that would follow him to the annual fair. Of course I was very excited to see him mention Stéphane Mallarmé: Houellebecq sees him as the model of the pure poet while admitting at the same time he doesn't have the kind of strength to become one: "I am a sentimental little cretin, because whiteness and snow frighten me, they evoke Schubert's terrifying Winterreise. Nonetheless, (Mallarmé's poetry and its purity is) very beautiful and perfectly precise." He recognizes poetry communities are a sham, citing "the Soviet-style displays of enthusiasm led by those in charge" - I am pretty sure Emily Dickinson would agree with that, although she probably would find a subtler way to describe the bad taste that reigns. Yet he looks back to the days when he was an unknown without a home, writing poetry and reading it among those who treated it as seriously as Mallarmé did. It's rare when he'll express his outright admiration for anyone - his greatest sense of admiration is reserved for these relatively unknown poets.
On the surface these letters are about two raging male egos explaining their narcissism out in a public forum. On that level I enjoyed this book tremendously. But on a deeper level they are addressing three important contemporary issues we are all thinking about in some form or another: the role of fame, as it contributes to value; the role of religion in human affairs, as it refuses to die; the role of art in a world (or so the defeatists say) where the work of artists is turned into no more than another form of business.
Houellebecq is someone worthwhile to consult on these matters because he's honest enough to admit he has sold out. I was very surprised to see him comparing himself in near suicidal terms to the lead singer of Nirvana: "I remember the interviews with Kurt Cobain where he said he was happiest when he and the band could tour in their camper van playing small venues without attracting the attention of a single journalist. People say, what, you're rich and famous now, what the fuck are you complaining about? It usually isn't long before they start accusing you of biting the hand that feeds. Usually you have to put a bullet in your head before they realize you were serious."
Public opinion is the real enemy then, in large numbers and small (not the writer himself, as the title of this book would have us believe), and his novels are built around this core belief.
"Nihilist, reactionary, cynic, racist, shameless misogynist: to lump me in with the rather unsavory family of 'right-wing anarchists' would be giving me too much credit; basically, I'm just a redneck." By "redneck" he really means "conventional." He paints himself as such. As a young man he listened to Pink Floyd while discovering Baudelaire. The girls thought he was cute. Then he discovered this famous passage from Pascal and everything for him changed: "Imagine a number of men in chains, all condemned to death, some of whom are daily slaughtered in the sight of the others; and those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows, looking at each other in distress and despair, await their turn. This is an image of the condition of men."
Later in life this Baudelaire-loving man writes novels based on public opinion and public perceptions (as opposed to focusing in on the unexciting details of private life that are ignored by the national media - for good reason, probably) and not surprisingly he makes a big splash. The only way to cut a man or woman down to size when they have become this famous is to attack them through their biography. You would think the viciousness of this is reserved for fans of pop culture, but at least in that world people are given the option of an out through a narrative of redemption. Not so among the intellectuals and consecrators of taste. I am not surprised at all to see that those who would describe themselves as politically liberal turn out to be the most vicious when using Houellebecq's biography against him, while those of the women's magazines, with one or two exceptions, have always shown enormous tact on the subject.
So for Houellebecq it's poetry over the novel:
"A novel is something very different; it entails a lot of grease and sweat; it requires a ridiculous amount of work to hold everything more or less together, tightening the wheel-nuts, stopping it from running off the road; it is, when all's said and done, a piece of machinery.
I don't disown my novels, I'm very fond of my novels, but it's not quite the same thing; and with my head on the block I would argue that the novel (even in the hands of Dostoyevsky, of Balzac, of Proust) in comparison to the poem, remains a minor genre.
I don't know whether I had a gift for writing novels, I don't know whether the question means anything: can one really have a gift for something so complex?"
The terrifying Winterreise from Schubert Houllebecq refers to:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8UDOm...
Houellebecq's experiences with religion are in the spoiler.
There is a surprisingly very touching moment in this exchange of letters with public intellectual Bernard-Henri Lévy where Houellebecq admits to his great regret that he can no longer attend poetry festivals when invited because of the notoriety he would bring; the purer artists presented there don't deserve the press that would follow him to the annual fair. Of course I was very excited to see him mention Stéphane Mallarmé: Houellebecq sees him as the model of the pure poet while admitting at the same time he doesn't have the kind of strength to become one: "I am a sentimental little cretin, because whiteness and snow frighten me, they evoke Schubert's terrifying Winterreise. Nonetheless, (Mallarmé's poetry and its purity is) very beautiful and perfectly precise." He recognizes poetry communities are a sham, citing "the Soviet-style displays of enthusiasm led by those in charge" - I am pretty sure Emily Dickinson would agree with that, although she probably would find a subtler way to describe the bad taste that reigns. Yet he looks back to the days when he was an unknown without a home, writing poetry and reading it among those who treated it as seriously as Mallarmé did. It's rare when he'll express his outright admiration for anyone - his greatest sense of admiration is reserved for these relatively unknown poets.
On the surface these letters are about two raging male egos explaining their narcissism out in a public forum. On that level I enjoyed this book tremendously. But on a deeper level they are addressing three important contemporary issues we are all thinking about in some form or another: the role of fame, as it contributes to value; the role of religion in human affairs, as it refuses to die; the role of art in a world (or so the defeatists say) where the work of artists is turned into no more than another form of business.
Houellebecq is someone worthwhile to consult on these matters because he's honest enough to admit he has sold out. I was very surprised to see him comparing himself in near suicidal terms to the lead singer of Nirvana: "I remember the interviews with Kurt Cobain where he said he was happiest when he and the band could tour in their camper van playing small venues without attracting the attention of a single journalist. People say, what, you're rich and famous now, what the fuck are you complaining about? It usually isn't long before they start accusing you of biting the hand that feeds. Usually you have to put a bullet in your head before they realize you were serious."
Public opinion is the real enemy then, in large numbers and small (not the writer himself, as the title of this book would have us believe), and his novels are built around this core belief.
"Nihilist, reactionary, cynic, racist, shameless misogynist: to lump me in with the rather unsavory family of 'right-wing anarchists' would be giving me too much credit; basically, I'm just a redneck." By "redneck" he really means "conventional." He paints himself as such. As a young man he listened to Pink Floyd while discovering Baudelaire. The girls thought he was cute. Then he discovered this famous passage from Pascal and everything for him changed: "Imagine a number of men in chains, all condemned to death, some of whom are daily slaughtered in the sight of the others; and those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows, looking at each other in distress and despair, await their turn. This is an image of the condition of men."
Later in life this Baudelaire-loving man writes novels based on public opinion and public perceptions (as opposed to focusing in on the unexciting details of private life that are ignored by the national media - for good reason, probably) and not surprisingly he makes a big splash. The only way to cut a man or woman down to size when they have become this famous is to attack them through their biography. You would think the viciousness of this is reserved for fans of pop culture, but at least in that world people are given the option of an out through a narrative of redemption. Not so among the intellectuals and consecrators of taste. I am not surprised at all to see that those who would describe themselves as politically liberal turn out to be the most vicious when using Houellebecq's biography against him, while those of the women's magazines, with one or two exceptions, have always shown enormous tact on the subject.
So for Houellebecq it's poetry over the novel:
"A novel is something very different; it entails a lot of grease and sweat; it requires a ridiculous amount of work to hold everything more or less together, tightening the wheel-nuts, stopping it from running off the road; it is, when all's said and done, a piece of machinery.
I don't disown my novels, I'm very fond of my novels, but it's not quite the same thing; and with my head on the block I would argue that the novel (even in the hands of Dostoyevsky, of Balzac, of Proust) in comparison to the poem, remains a minor genre.
I don't know whether I had a gift for writing novels, I don't know whether the question means anything: can one really have a gift for something so complex?"
The terrifying Winterreise from Schubert Houllebecq refers to:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8UDOm...
Houellebecq's experiences with religion are in the spoiler.
August 27, 2021
vrlo zahtjevna korespondencija između dvojice francuskih pisaca/intelektualca. s houellebecqovim opusom sam relativno dobro upoznata, a za bernard-henri lévyja nikad prije nisam ni čula. s obzirom da sam veliki houellebecqov fan, imala sam okvirnu predodžbu što mogu ovdje očekivati... uglavnom, to je palo u vodu nakon nekoliko stranica - njegov nihilističko cinični depresivni ego ovdje je prikočen.
ovo je više intelektualno nadmetanje, dvoboj, nego korespondencija u klasičnom smislu... formalno, da, jedan drugome pišu pisma (započinje houellebecq), drugi odgovara na pismo i nadodaje nešto svoje i tako kroz šest mjeseci (knjiga sadrži sveukupno 28 pisama pisanih 2008. godine), ali za mene je pojam "pismo" nešto vrlo intimno, osobno i, mogu reći, skriveno... iako i među ovom dvojicom ima određene nježnosti, a svakako respekta, interesa i naklonosti, tek u naznakama odlaze u privatnu sferu.
o čemu oni, dakle, izmjenjuju misli i ideje? puno politike (osobito njima lokalne, francuske), književnost, filozofija, umjetnost općenito, društvo kao takvo, religija... praktički nema područja kojeg se nisu dotakli. pri tome skrivaju svoju intimu kao zmija noge, vjerojatno računajući da će pisma biti objavljena pa filtriraju što žele da se sazna o njima.
preporučujem onima koji se suvereno snalaze u gore navedenim temama i onima koji vole guglati mnoštvo likova za koje vjerojatno nikad prije nisu čuli. priznajem im obojici intelektualnu raskoš, eruditi su, literarno jaki, smisleni, britki i mentalno raskošni... ali ako si očekivao "pisma" u klasičnom smislu riječi, ovo nije to.
ovo je više intelektualno nadmetanje, dvoboj, nego korespondencija u klasičnom smislu... formalno, da, jedan drugome pišu pisma (započinje houellebecq), drugi odgovara na pismo i nadodaje nešto svoje i tako kroz šest mjeseci (knjiga sadrži sveukupno 28 pisama pisanih 2008. godine), ali za mene je pojam "pismo" nešto vrlo intimno, osobno i, mogu reći, skriveno... iako i među ovom dvojicom ima određene nježnosti, a svakako respekta, interesa i naklonosti, tek u naznakama odlaze u privatnu sferu.
o čemu oni, dakle, izmjenjuju misli i ideje? puno politike (osobito njima lokalne, francuske), književnost, filozofija, umjetnost općenito, društvo kao takvo, religija... praktički nema područja kojeg se nisu dotakli. pri tome skrivaju svoju intimu kao zmija noge, vjerojatno računajući da će pisma biti objavljena pa filtriraju što žele da se sazna o njima.
preporučujem onima koji se suvereno snalaze u gore navedenim temama i onima koji vole guglati mnoštvo likova za koje vjerojatno nikad prije nisu čuli. priznajem im obojici intelektualnu raskoš, eruditi su, literarno jaki, smisleni, britki i mentalno raskošni... ali ako si očekivao "pisma" u klasičnom smislu riječi, ovo nije to.
November 18, 2021
Knjiga sadrži pisma, polugodišnju prepisku između Houellebecqa, "apostola dekadentne Europe" i Henry-Levya, filozofa i aktivista. Prepiska o književnosti, nekim detaljima iz svog života (ne otkrivaju puno), pitanju majke, izloženosti kao javnih osoba, pisanju, drugim piscima i javnim osobama....
Nisu se puno popričali oko žena, čudno dva muškarca nisu iskomentirali žene ;)
Houellebecq isti kao uvijek, pjesnička duša, a Henry-Levy nekako djeluje izvještačeno.
„There was Pascal, the beautiful paintings in the museums, that music
by Bach and others too, of which Cioran said that God owed everything to
it: the cathedrals, the names of villages, the monuments of the national
novel, virtues and sins, this “inner France,” this “national novel.” You can
turn them around in as many directions as you like, but they are and will
remain fundamentally Christian in essence.“
„What most people seem to find hard to understand is that Judaism is not a
religion. The word religion does not exist in Hebrew.“
„They at least understood that if the Church did not break the unnatural covenant it had made with the bourgeoisie and the employers, if it could not forge ties with the working classes, it was signing its own death warrant.“
„After all, isn’t the mother question the most central one archaeologically for every writer?“
„Maybe not having had a mother makes you stronger, but if so, it does it in a way you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. You never take love for granted; to be honest, you find it difficult to believe in love at all. You remain a sort of feral child; never completely at peace, never completely domesticated; always ready to bite.“
„In Western societies, an individual has the right to stay on the sidelines of
the group for a few years and attempt to gallop freely. But sooner or later
the pack wakes up, the hunt starts, and eventually they corner him. At that
point they take revenge, and their revenge is terrible. Because the pack is
scared, and that might seem surprising because they have strength in
numbers: but it is made up of mediocre individuals who are conscious of
and ashamed of that fact, and furious that, even for a second, their
mediocrity is exposed for all to see.“
„You are faced with your own essence and at the same time you are its
chief victim.“
„In our Ubuesque societies, rumor is one of the faces of fate. And I’ve paid for the knowledge that there is nothing you can do to combat a rumor, gossip, or false information that spreads like a virus.“
„All the same, I think we can always conclude that those who are wicked are first and foremost frightened. This is true firstly because that’s how it is. They have an allencompassing fear of life, death, of their specters, their fantasies, the child in them who has died and whose corpse they are carrying, the spitefulness of others, each person’s loneliness, their desires, what they don’t desire, their hidden weakness whose depths no book has ever plumbed, their element of madness, their conformism, their inescapable mediocrity and their ruined ambitions, the war of everyone against everyone, and the eternal rest to which they know that they will one day be condemned.“
„When asked if writing is painful or pleasurable for me, I’ve never known how to answer; the truth, I think, is that it is something else and can take either of those forms. An extreme nervous agitation, an exaltation that can be rapidly exhausting. „
„A writer named Marin de Viry made an interesting analogy between writing and cycling. People tend to praise the mountainous stages, he said, where each new sentence, like each turn of the pedals, seems to display superhuman effort; but the stages of flat open country where nothing seems to be happening but where, at any moment, things can change dramatically have their own charm; the long stages along flat stretches, or stretches that only seem to be flat.“
„The fundamental question is why (write)?“
„Why do you write? Because you can’t make love all day. Why do you make love? Because you can’t write all day“
„Literature or life? Life because of literature; for me life does not “live,” it
is not profoundly and carnally life unless I know that I can snatch words
from it.“
„And what can the bookshops do, if there are no readers? Maybe we live
in a world (this was Ghérasim Luca’s* conclusion just before he committed
suicide) where poetry simply has no place anymore „
„Maybe it is time for me, too, to say my “farewell to reason.” Reason,
which has been useless to me, which has never helped me write a single
line; reason, which, all my life, has done nothing but torment me with the
desolate nature of its conclusions.“
„We write because we have read, that seems obvious to me; it is, in a sense, a sort of conversation across the centuries.“
“every man is an artist” contains a great truth. Because every man
experiences moments when he is capable of creating magnificent artistic
works, in which his reason plays no part. He experiences them every day, or rather, every night. Put simply, every man dreams.“
„I hold a mirror up to the world, but the world does not find its
reflection beautiful; it turns the mirror around and argues, “It’s not the
world you’re describing, it’s yourself.” I turn it back again and state, “The
pitiful articles you write are not about me or about my books; all you are
doing is revealing your shortcomings and your lies.“
„I think the point when I really have to worry is the day I stop being bipolar—the day the surface of the mirror starts to tarnish. Or—the other danger—the day it begins to crack, then shatters into pieces.“
„It is possible to imagine that someone who spent his childhood
and adolescence in daily contact with a mother he despised would be
unlikely, later in life, to appreciate a woman’s qualities.
But what about someone who barely knew his mother? One might imagine he would be particularly determined to seek out the company of women; that he would try with all his might to be reunited with this thing that, to him, will forever remain a mystery.“
„As a rule I don’t really believe in dialogue.
As a philosopher I should—see Plato, Berkeley, Hume, Leibniz, and so
many others. But the truth is, I don’t believe in it, and in real life I’ve never understood the theory according to which it is enough to oppose each other, confront arguments and counterarguments, for the shadows of ignorance to lift as if by magic. In most discussions people arrive with their convictions and leave with the same ones. The idea of dialectics that would allow them to refine their point of view, to enrich or change it, has always struck me as highly unlikely.“
„Books are not a mirror but the girders of the universe, and
that’s why it’s so important that there should continue to be writers.“
“We remember our lives a little better than a novel we once read.”
Nisu se puno popričali oko žena, čudno dva muškarca nisu iskomentirali žene ;)
Houellebecq isti kao uvijek, pjesnička duša, a Henry-Levy nekako djeluje izvještačeno.
„There was Pascal, the beautiful paintings in the museums, that music
by Bach and others too, of which Cioran said that God owed everything to
it: the cathedrals, the names of villages, the monuments of the national
novel, virtues and sins, this “inner France,” this “national novel.” You can
turn them around in as many directions as you like, but they are and will
remain fundamentally Christian in essence.“
„What most people seem to find hard to understand is that Judaism is not a
religion. The word religion does not exist in Hebrew.“
„They at least understood that if the Church did not break the unnatural covenant it had made with the bourgeoisie and the employers, if it could not forge ties with the working classes, it was signing its own death warrant.“
„After all, isn’t the mother question the most central one archaeologically for every writer?“
„Maybe not having had a mother makes you stronger, but if so, it does it in a way you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. You never take love for granted; to be honest, you find it difficult to believe in love at all. You remain a sort of feral child; never completely at peace, never completely domesticated; always ready to bite.“
„In Western societies, an individual has the right to stay on the sidelines of
the group for a few years and attempt to gallop freely. But sooner or later
the pack wakes up, the hunt starts, and eventually they corner him. At that
point they take revenge, and their revenge is terrible. Because the pack is
scared, and that might seem surprising because they have strength in
numbers: but it is made up of mediocre individuals who are conscious of
and ashamed of that fact, and furious that, even for a second, their
mediocrity is exposed for all to see.“
„You are faced with your own essence and at the same time you are its
chief victim.“
„In our Ubuesque societies, rumor is one of the faces of fate. And I’ve paid for the knowledge that there is nothing you can do to combat a rumor, gossip, or false information that spreads like a virus.“
„All the same, I think we can always conclude that those who are wicked are first and foremost frightened. This is true firstly because that’s how it is. They have an allencompassing fear of life, death, of their specters, their fantasies, the child in them who has died and whose corpse they are carrying, the spitefulness of others, each person’s loneliness, their desires, what they don’t desire, their hidden weakness whose depths no book has ever plumbed, their element of madness, their conformism, their inescapable mediocrity and their ruined ambitions, the war of everyone against everyone, and the eternal rest to which they know that they will one day be condemned.“
„When asked if writing is painful or pleasurable for me, I’ve never known how to answer; the truth, I think, is that it is something else and can take either of those forms. An extreme nervous agitation, an exaltation that can be rapidly exhausting. „
„A writer named Marin de Viry made an interesting analogy between writing and cycling. People tend to praise the mountainous stages, he said, where each new sentence, like each turn of the pedals, seems to display superhuman effort; but the stages of flat open country where nothing seems to be happening but where, at any moment, things can change dramatically have their own charm; the long stages along flat stretches, or stretches that only seem to be flat.“
„The fundamental question is why (write)?“
„Why do you write? Because you can’t make love all day. Why do you make love? Because you can’t write all day“
„Literature or life? Life because of literature; for me life does not “live,” it
is not profoundly and carnally life unless I know that I can snatch words
from it.“
„And what can the bookshops do, if there are no readers? Maybe we live
in a world (this was Ghérasim Luca’s* conclusion just before he committed
suicide) where poetry simply has no place anymore „
„Maybe it is time for me, too, to say my “farewell to reason.” Reason,
which has been useless to me, which has never helped me write a single
line; reason, which, all my life, has done nothing but torment me with the
desolate nature of its conclusions.“
„We write because we have read, that seems obvious to me; it is, in a sense, a sort of conversation across the centuries.“
“every man is an artist” contains a great truth. Because every man
experiences moments when he is capable of creating magnificent artistic
works, in which his reason plays no part. He experiences them every day, or rather, every night. Put simply, every man dreams.“
„I hold a mirror up to the world, but the world does not find its
reflection beautiful; it turns the mirror around and argues, “It’s not the
world you’re describing, it’s yourself.” I turn it back again and state, “The
pitiful articles you write are not about me or about my books; all you are
doing is revealing your shortcomings and your lies.“
„I think the point when I really have to worry is the day I stop being bipolar—the day the surface of the mirror starts to tarnish. Or—the other danger—the day it begins to crack, then shatters into pieces.“
„It is possible to imagine that someone who spent his childhood
and adolescence in daily contact with a mother he despised would be
unlikely, later in life, to appreciate a woman’s qualities.
But what about someone who barely knew his mother? One might imagine he would be particularly determined to seek out the company of women; that he would try with all his might to be reunited with this thing that, to him, will forever remain a mystery.“
„As a rule I don’t really believe in dialogue.
As a philosopher I should—see Plato, Berkeley, Hume, Leibniz, and so
many others. But the truth is, I don’t believe in it, and in real life I’ve never understood the theory according to which it is enough to oppose each other, confront arguments and counterarguments, for the shadows of ignorance to lift as if by magic. In most discussions people arrive with their convictions and leave with the same ones. The idea of dialectics that would allow them to refine their point of view, to enrich or change it, has always struck me as highly unlikely.“
„Books are not a mirror but the girders of the universe, and
that’s why it’s so important that there should continue to be writers.“
“We remember our lives a little better than a novel we once read.”
April 14, 2012
You might be forgiven for snickering at the title of “Public Enemies,” Michel Houllebecq’s and Bernard-Henri Levy’s collection of email correspondence, before even cracking the cover. Far from a threat to the Republic, these two writers are card-carrying members of the Apollonian French literary/philosophical establishment. Any countercultural postures from these public intellectuals, in a country where the role carries real gravity, are bound to be at least a partial masquerade.
Levy, in particular, is a product of his insular haute-haute environment. I once read his “War, Evil and the End of History”, which begins as a collection of gripping and thoughtful war reportage, followed by an airy anthology of aphorisms on, well… War, Evil and the End of history, roughly passed off as oracular pensées. With such an apocalyptic topic, Levy might be forgiven for cosmic irresolution, but he reads like an indolent aristocrat who’s lost any obligation to perform heavy lifting.
So it is with Levy and Houllebecq, whose email correspondence reads like it was sent between gods languishing in Olympus, only occasionally acknowledging the lowly rabble below. And honestly, that’s part of the amusement of “Public Enemies”; the reader is sometimes left with vague admiration for the French literary establishment, sometimes with a vague relief that they belong to an Anglo/American world of relative humility and common sense. But in the end, the book is too formless and self-indulgent to satisfy.
Of the two, Houllebecq emerges better. An excellent writer but a less-than-artful novelist, here he’s free from the obligation to shoehorn his solipsistic fixations into fictional scenarios, and he lets his essayist’s instincts (which are on full display in his book-length tribute to H.P. Lovecraft) blossom. In this context, he’s free-flowing, intelligent and engaging. Levy is more of a parlor intellectual, endlessly namedropping and referring to other writers, spinning his wheels as he conjures a chain of literary-philosophical allusions.
A cover blurb from Paris Match describes "Public Enemies" as "Urgent,” but this curiosity offers hardly any real relevance outside its insular Franco-academic milieu. The truth is closer to the punning phrase title that appeared the satirical newspaper Le Canard Enchaine (The Enchained Duck) in 2008: "Enemies Pudique." An amusing window into French intellectual culture? Yes. An important literary document? Hardly.
Levy, in particular, is a product of his insular haute-haute environment. I once read his “War, Evil and the End of History”, which begins as a collection of gripping and thoughtful war reportage, followed by an airy anthology of aphorisms on, well… War, Evil and the End of history, roughly passed off as oracular pensées. With such an apocalyptic topic, Levy might be forgiven for cosmic irresolution, but he reads like an indolent aristocrat who’s lost any obligation to perform heavy lifting.
So it is with Levy and Houllebecq, whose email correspondence reads like it was sent between gods languishing in Olympus, only occasionally acknowledging the lowly rabble below. And honestly, that’s part of the amusement of “Public Enemies”; the reader is sometimes left with vague admiration for the French literary establishment, sometimes with a vague relief that they belong to an Anglo/American world of relative humility and common sense. But in the end, the book is too formless and self-indulgent to satisfy.
Of the two, Houllebecq emerges better. An excellent writer but a less-than-artful novelist, here he’s free from the obligation to shoehorn his solipsistic fixations into fictional scenarios, and he lets his essayist’s instincts (which are on full display in his book-length tribute to H.P. Lovecraft) blossom. In this context, he’s free-flowing, intelligent and engaging. Levy is more of a parlor intellectual, endlessly namedropping and referring to other writers, spinning his wheels as he conjures a chain of literary-philosophical allusions.
A cover blurb from Paris Match describes "Public Enemies" as "Urgent,” but this curiosity offers hardly any real relevance outside its insular Franco-academic milieu. The truth is closer to the punning phrase title that appeared the satirical newspaper Le Canard Enchaine (The Enchained Duck) in 2008: "Enemies Pudique." An amusing window into French intellectual culture? Yes. An important literary document? Hardly.
kill-me-if-i-ever-think-of-reading
August 9, 2011OK, I had to start this new bookshelf just to put this book into it. Seriously, kill me if I ever think of reading this.
January 15, 2015
Pędzi jak odrzutowiec i czyta się to fenomenalnie. A po ostatniej stronie pozostaje tylko pustka i baba w tramwaju, której "artur ma jak najszybciej naprawić komputer bo nie gra muzyka".
February 10, 2019
¿Cómo no ponerle todas las estrellas posibles a dos de los escritores y pensadores más controversiales, divertidos e influyentes en mi vida y en mis años recientes?
July 30, 2017
The book is an exchange of letters between two French intellectuals, Michel Houellebecq and Bernard-Henri Levy, which start in a very acidic, self-effacing, insulting tone. Despite being on opposite ends of the political spectrum, they share the trait of being controversial, even hated and despised by the public (hence the book title). As the exchange of letters advances, they open up about themselves, talk about their families, their upbringing, their struggles, their ideas about art and artists. Despite their being known for their political differences, politics stays at the margins for the most part; they talk more about society generally or religion (and Houellebecq is an atheist!). They find they have not a little in common, apart from just public controversy.
They make frequent reference to French popular culture, history, philosophers, artists, etc. Fortunately, I knew more than a few of their references already, though the book still left me wishing I knew more. There are brief endnotes explaining these references to the uninitiated, but one would benefit more with a bit of background.
Some of their remarks are quite memorable, such as Levy's realization that "you write in order to find out not so much who you are as who you're becoming." (p 34) There is Houellebecq's understanding of contempt, from being on the receiving end: "When you are contemptuous of your adversary, you can be almost certain you are beaten." (p 42) Followed by, "There is a real incompatibility, I am increasingly aware, between hatred and contempt." (p 56)
Houellebecq concludes that they are hated so much because French society has become so degraded and weak as not to tolerate criticism or dark views anymore: "our societies have come to a terminal stage where they refuse to recognize their malaise, where they demand that fiction be happy-go-lucky, escapist; they simply don't have the courage to face their own reality." (p 63) Whereas, "When a country is strong, self-confident, it is prepared to accept any amount of pessimism from its writers without turning a hair." (p 65) So Houellebecq diagnoses his and Levy's trouble:
In Western societies, an individual has the right to stay on the sidelines of the group for a few years and attempt to gallop freely. But sooner or later the pack wakes up, the hunt starts, and eventually they corner him. At that point they take revenge, and their revenge is terrible. Because the pack is scared, and that might seem surprising because they have strength in numbers: but it is made up of mediocre individuals who are conscious of and ashamed of that fact, and furious that, even for a second, their mediocrity is exposed for all to see. (p 191)
Levy can only commiserate together with Houellebecq, "the golden rule of the literary nuclear war, according to which there is never, absolutely never, the possibility of a second strike." (p 196) Houellebecq goes on to show how much worse it is with the internet, "where people rail against everything without any sense of decency, where everything is exaggerated, insulting, crude...it's depressing the mediocre use humanity makes of this extraordinary tool." (p 212)
In one of the rare jaunts toward politics (they couldn't even force themselves to talk of then-President Sarkozy), Levy notes, "In philosophical terms I'm not at all what is usually called a progressive. Actually, I believe that people who want to get too mixed up in the lives of their fellow men, to redesign or regenerate humanity excessively, are either dangerous lunatics or crooks, or both." (p 71) Houellebecq finds common ground with his "public enemy," noting, "I have gradually grown to see public spaces as a hostile territory bristling with absurd and humiliating bans, which I negotiate as quickly as possible to get from one private residence to another private residence; a territory in which I am deeply unwelcome, in which I have no place, in which nothing interesting or pleasant can happen to me." (p 82)
Houellebecq's understanding of irreconcilable public differences starts with, "Problems, real problems, begin when two spiritual principles come face-to-face." (p 110) This can lead to a great unraveling: "A government can ask much of its citizens, of its subjects; but there comes a moment when it asks too much; and then it's over." (p 113) Fear not though: "Nowadays things are okay, we have a professional army; under such circumstances it's easier to love one's country, since the love is risk free." (p 114) But the risk remains, even still: "What if compassion disappeared? I think, in that case, humanity too would disappear. And that the disappearance of such humanity would be a good thing." (p 169)
But there are lighter notes: "Why do you write? Because you can't make love all day. Why do you make love? Because you can't write all day." (p 234)
As they conclude their correspondence, Houellebecq sums it up: "we are never as rational as we think we are" (p 255), and this from the self-identified free thinker! Levy agrees, "that's how life is, absurd, contradictory, you forget that you sold the Bentley, you believe that you always were who you are now until you wake up one fine morning and notice that time has changed you." (p 287) Levy notes wryly (take note, internet controversialists!), "In most discussions people arrive with their convictions and leave with the same ones." (p 286) Yet, despite not converting one another, despite still having no end of differences apart from the merely political, they discovered much about one another and found so much they shared.
An enjoyable book, easy to read, the short letters help it lend itself to pick-up-and-read-a-little, if you like. Having some background as to who Houellebecq and Levy are is quite helpful, though they do expose themselves to the reader throughout. Similarly, having some background in French thinkers, artists, history, and culture helps, though it is not entirely essential. Each of the writers definitely has his moments in these letters, though it's hardly a can't-put-down page-turner.
They make frequent reference to French popular culture, history, philosophers, artists, etc. Fortunately, I knew more than a few of their references already, though the book still left me wishing I knew more. There are brief endnotes explaining these references to the uninitiated, but one would benefit more with a bit of background.
Some of their remarks are quite memorable, such as Levy's realization that "you write in order to find out not so much who you are as who you're becoming." (p 34) There is Houellebecq's understanding of contempt, from being on the receiving end: "When you are contemptuous of your adversary, you can be almost certain you are beaten." (p 42) Followed by, "There is a real incompatibility, I am increasingly aware, between hatred and contempt." (p 56)
Houellebecq concludes that they are hated so much because French society has become so degraded and weak as not to tolerate criticism or dark views anymore: "our societies have come to a terminal stage where they refuse to recognize their malaise, where they demand that fiction be happy-go-lucky, escapist; they simply don't have the courage to face their own reality." (p 63) Whereas, "When a country is strong, self-confident, it is prepared to accept any amount of pessimism from its writers without turning a hair." (p 65) So Houellebecq diagnoses his and Levy's trouble:
In Western societies, an individual has the right to stay on the sidelines of the group for a few years and attempt to gallop freely. But sooner or later the pack wakes up, the hunt starts, and eventually they corner him. At that point they take revenge, and their revenge is terrible. Because the pack is scared, and that might seem surprising because they have strength in numbers: but it is made up of mediocre individuals who are conscious of and ashamed of that fact, and furious that, even for a second, their mediocrity is exposed for all to see. (p 191)
Levy can only commiserate together with Houellebecq, "the golden rule of the literary nuclear war, according to which there is never, absolutely never, the possibility of a second strike." (p 196) Houellebecq goes on to show how much worse it is with the internet, "where people rail against everything without any sense of decency, where everything is exaggerated, insulting, crude...it's depressing the mediocre use humanity makes of this extraordinary tool." (p 212)
In one of the rare jaunts toward politics (they couldn't even force themselves to talk of then-President Sarkozy), Levy notes, "In philosophical terms I'm not at all what is usually called a progressive. Actually, I believe that people who want to get too mixed up in the lives of their fellow men, to redesign or regenerate humanity excessively, are either dangerous lunatics or crooks, or both." (p 71) Houellebecq finds common ground with his "public enemy," noting, "I have gradually grown to see public spaces as a hostile territory bristling with absurd and humiliating bans, which I negotiate as quickly as possible to get from one private residence to another private residence; a territory in which I am deeply unwelcome, in which I have no place, in which nothing interesting or pleasant can happen to me." (p 82)
Houellebecq's understanding of irreconcilable public differences starts with, "Problems, real problems, begin when two spiritual principles come face-to-face." (p 110) This can lead to a great unraveling: "A government can ask much of its citizens, of its subjects; but there comes a moment when it asks too much; and then it's over." (p 113) Fear not though: "Nowadays things are okay, we have a professional army; under such circumstances it's easier to love one's country, since the love is risk free." (p 114) But the risk remains, even still: "What if compassion disappeared? I think, in that case, humanity too would disappear. And that the disappearance of such humanity would be a good thing." (p 169)
But there are lighter notes: "Why do you write? Because you can't make love all day. Why do you make love? Because you can't write all day." (p 234)
As they conclude their correspondence, Houellebecq sums it up: "we are never as rational as we think we are" (p 255), and this from the self-identified free thinker! Levy agrees, "that's how life is, absurd, contradictory, you forget that you sold the Bentley, you believe that you always were who you are now until you wake up one fine morning and notice that time has changed you." (p 287) Levy notes wryly (take note, internet controversialists!), "In most discussions people arrive with their convictions and leave with the same ones." (p 286) Yet, despite not converting one another, despite still having no end of differences apart from the merely political, they discovered much about one another and found so much they shared.
An enjoyable book, easy to read, the short letters help it lend itself to pick-up-and-read-a-little, if you like. Having some background as to who Houellebecq and Levy are is quite helpful, though they do expose themselves to the reader throughout. Similarly, having some background in French thinkers, artists, history, and culture helps, though it is not entirely essential. Each of the writers definitely has his moments in these letters, though it's hardly a can't-put-down page-turner.
December 14, 2021
Both Houellebecq and Lévy come through likeable, witty, sensitive, and endearing in this collection of letters. It's fairly crucial reading for fans of Houellebecq's novels, and the project itself is fascinating (comparing their correspondence to a game of distance chess, Lévy calls it "a way for two people to invent and produce together a work of the mind, with questions, answers, frustrated passions, sudden revivals, shared or hidden flashes of understanding, virtuoso performances, the setting of traps," (p174)). But belles lettres books such as these, particularly those highly provincial, always make me acutely aware of my status as a consumer, ticket-purchasing audience member, passive eavesdropper -- this is a vague but persistent and unwelcome readerly sorrow
December 15, 2015
Well, I've had to revise my opinion of Houellebecq. This is a splendid book full of stimulating ideas and interesting perspectives.
The blurb for the Atlantic Books edition of Public Enemies describes this book as a ferocious exchange of letters by two of the most celebrated of French intellectuals but it seems a calm and courteous debate to me. I am undecided as to whether I have formed this impression because the publicists have tried to create conflict as a marketing strategy or because I am perhaps not bright enough to detect the subtleties of Lévy and Houellebecq being rude to each other. The book simply seems to be two intelligent and interesting men in correspondence over opposing philosophical positions, hardly the stuff of ferocity or even great passion. Public Enemies is nowhere near as confrontational as most of what passes for debate in the Australian media. (Or cat-fights between literary critics via Twitter, oh why do I waste my time clicking those links?!)
Lévy describes their correspondence like this:
I watch out for the things that connect us, the things that separate us, the things that appear to connect us that in reality separate us – our correspondences …
… less as a match than a game, less of a competition than a way for two people to invent and produce together a work of the mind, with questions, answers, frustrated passions, sudden revivals, shared or hidden flashes of understanding, virtuoso performances, the setting of traps. (p. 173-4)
The correspondence was apparently triggered by Time Magazine labelling the pair as representative of the ‘shocking dumbing-down of French culture and intellect’, an assessment which if as reported in Public Enemies seems ludicrous to me because I cannot think of any magazine less able to rise to its pretensions and be the judge of any culture. Whatever about that, Houellebecq invites Lévy to spar, and away they go, beginning with an analysis of why they should bother to respond:
Why is there so much hatred? Where does it come from? And why, when the targets are writers, is it so extreme in its tone and virulence? (p.6)
To read the rest of my review please visit http://anzlitlovers.com/2014/01/16/pu...
The blurb for the Atlantic Books edition of Public Enemies describes this book as a ferocious exchange of letters by two of the most celebrated of French intellectuals but it seems a calm and courteous debate to me. I am undecided as to whether I have formed this impression because the publicists have tried to create conflict as a marketing strategy or because I am perhaps not bright enough to detect the subtleties of Lévy and Houellebecq being rude to each other. The book simply seems to be two intelligent and interesting men in correspondence over opposing philosophical positions, hardly the stuff of ferocity or even great passion. Public Enemies is nowhere near as confrontational as most of what passes for debate in the Australian media. (Or cat-fights between literary critics via Twitter, oh why do I waste my time clicking those links?!)
Lévy describes their correspondence like this:
I watch out for the things that connect us, the things that separate us, the things that appear to connect us that in reality separate us – our correspondences …
… less as a match than a game, less of a competition than a way for two people to invent and produce together a work of the mind, with questions, answers, frustrated passions, sudden revivals, shared or hidden flashes of understanding, virtuoso performances, the setting of traps. (p. 173-4)
The correspondence was apparently triggered by Time Magazine labelling the pair as representative of the ‘shocking dumbing-down of French culture and intellect’, an assessment which if as reported in Public Enemies seems ludicrous to me because I cannot think of any magazine less able to rise to its pretensions and be the judge of any culture. Whatever about that, Houellebecq invites Lévy to spar, and away they go, beginning with an analysis of why they should bother to respond:
Why is there so much hatred? Where does it come from? And why, when the targets are writers, is it so extreme in its tone and virulence? (p.6)
To read the rest of my review please visit http://anzlitlovers.com/2014/01/16/pu...
April 3, 2018
Michel Houellebecq en Bernard-Henry Lévy: twee verguisde Franse schrijvers, veracht en uitgespuwd door de goegemeente, maar tegelijkertijd onweerstaanbaar. Alles bij elkaar hebben ze weinig gemeen, of althans dat denken ze. Van wie het idee komt, is niet helemaal duidelijk, maar op een dag ontmoeten ze elkaar en besluiten een correspondentie te starten. Geen snelle mails, nee, goede ouderwetse brieven waaraan gewerkt is, op gewroet, over nagedacht. In het begin proberen ze elkaar nog onderuit te halen of te overbluffen, maar hoe meer dit brievenboek vordert, hoe vaker ze het met elkaar eens worden.
Allerlei onderwerpen komen aan bod: hun jeugdtrauma's, hun liefdes, hun minachting voor deze wereld, hun kleine kantjes, hun verslavingen, maar ook hun literaire achtergronden, hun lievelingsschrijvers, de filosofieën die ertoe doen in hun eigen leven. Ook de donkere kantjes komen aan bod, zoals de eindeloos verstoorde verhouding van Houellebecq met zijn moeder. De vaderfiguren zijn dan weer heel verschillend. En bijna toevallig komen ze erachter dat ze opgegroeid zijn in twee vlak bij elkaar gelegen dorpjes.
Is er een leven buiten de literatuur, of is de literatuur het leven? Wat zijn hun drijfveren? Is poëzie van een hogere orde dan een roman? Of juist niet? Opvallend is de enorme belezenheid van Lévy die zelfs zonder zijn boeken bij de hand hele volzinnen weet te citeren. Ze hebben ook hun eigen voorkeuren: zo voelt Lévy zich eerder thuis bij Nietzsche, terwijl Houellebecq Schopenhauer verkiest.
Wat voor lezers niet onbelangrijk is: tegen het einde van hun tweespraak krijgt Lévy weer zin om eindelijk nog eens een roman te schrijven, terwijl Houellebecq besluit zich weer meer op de poëzie toe te gaan leggen, waar hij zich altijd veel gelukkiger bij heeft gevoeld.
Kortom, je krijgt in dit brievenboek een zeer gevarieerd en diepgaand beeld van beide schrijvers. Wie hun werk wil begrijpen, kan eigenlijk niet zonder deze brieven.
Allerlei onderwerpen komen aan bod: hun jeugdtrauma's, hun liefdes, hun minachting voor deze wereld, hun kleine kantjes, hun verslavingen, maar ook hun literaire achtergronden, hun lievelingsschrijvers, de filosofieën die ertoe doen in hun eigen leven. Ook de donkere kantjes komen aan bod, zoals de eindeloos verstoorde verhouding van Houellebecq met zijn moeder. De vaderfiguren zijn dan weer heel verschillend. En bijna toevallig komen ze erachter dat ze opgegroeid zijn in twee vlak bij elkaar gelegen dorpjes.
Is er een leven buiten de literatuur, of is de literatuur het leven? Wat zijn hun drijfveren? Is poëzie van een hogere orde dan een roman? Of juist niet? Opvallend is de enorme belezenheid van Lévy die zelfs zonder zijn boeken bij de hand hele volzinnen weet te citeren. Ze hebben ook hun eigen voorkeuren: zo voelt Lévy zich eerder thuis bij Nietzsche, terwijl Houellebecq Schopenhauer verkiest.
Wat voor lezers niet onbelangrijk is: tegen het einde van hun tweespraak krijgt Lévy weer zin om eindelijk nog eens een roman te schrijven, terwijl Houellebecq besluit zich weer meer op de poëzie toe te gaan leggen, waar hij zich altijd veel gelukkiger bij heeft gevoeld.
Kortom, je krijgt in dit brievenboek een zeer gevarieerd en diepgaand beeld van beide schrijvers. Wie hun werk wil begrijpen, kan eigenlijk niet zonder deze brieven.
February 25, 2018
"You are faced with your own essence and at the same time you are its chief victim." - Houellebecq pg 195.
this book moved me. i did not expect to be moved. i expected inspiration, intellectual stimulation, perhaps a couple of laughs, and an insight into m.h i could not grasp from his novels or interviews (also to read BHL for the first time). but i often found myself in awe of both of these writers and their honesty and intellect, and respect for what they have been dragged through.
"Let's state the obvious: man is not, in general, a morally admirable creature. To delicately state something less obvious: man, in general, has enough in him to admire that which, morally, is beyond him and to behave accordingly." - Houellebecq pg 109.
this book is a collection of letters between the two writers, in a classic philosophical vein of ideas exchanged and argued through correspondence. i had to savour this book, as i doubt i will find something quite like this again, or have such a reading experience again. i have read that reading this book is like being privy to a barroom conversation between the two, and that is fair, but it feels more than that. such honesty is hard to conjure face to face; it is to the blank page that such honesty comes. and readers are fortunate for a work such as this.
not recommended if you haven't read, or at least aren't well aware of both m.h and BHL.
"We're all more or less guided by a star , aren't we? Well, there are bad stars - which the Romans called sidera, whose property is to attract you toward the depths, the chasm, the abyss, and first and foremost the abyss in yourself... There are good stars, the astra, which, on the other hand, made you raise your head, look to the sky, especially the sky of ideas..." - BHL 76
this book moved me. i did not expect to be moved. i expected inspiration, intellectual stimulation, perhaps a couple of laughs, and an insight into m.h i could not grasp from his novels or interviews (also to read BHL for the first time). but i often found myself in awe of both of these writers and their honesty and intellect, and respect for what they have been dragged through.
"Let's state the obvious: man is not, in general, a morally admirable creature. To delicately state something less obvious: man, in general, has enough in him to admire that which, morally, is beyond him and to behave accordingly." - Houellebecq pg 109.
this book is a collection of letters between the two writers, in a classic philosophical vein of ideas exchanged and argued through correspondence. i had to savour this book, as i doubt i will find something quite like this again, or have such a reading experience again. i have read that reading this book is like being privy to a barroom conversation between the two, and that is fair, but it feels more than that. such honesty is hard to conjure face to face; it is to the blank page that such honesty comes. and readers are fortunate for a work such as this.
not recommended if you haven't read, or at least aren't well aware of both m.h and BHL.
"We're all more or less guided by a star , aren't we? Well, there are bad stars - which the Romans called sidera, whose property is to attract you toward the depths, the chasm, the abyss, and first and foremost the abyss in yourself... There are good stars, the astra, which, on the other hand, made you raise your head, look to the sky, especially the sky of ideas..." - BHL 76
February 20, 2011
A very enjoyable book to read on the bus, but then again Michel Houellebecq and Bernard-Henri Lévy are not real heavy weights in the world of letters to me at least. We're not talking Sartre meets Foucault - it is more of a showbiz version of French intellectuals.
What these two do is moan about their public identity, and their importance to culture. Which may be true (and I am a fan of Houellebecq) but it is almost like a Saturday Night Live skit. They're hysterical but I don't think they mean it in that light.
Of the two, Houellebecq is more interesting on many many levels. He is the only one to use rock n' roll references, and it surprises me that Henri-Lévy is not more pop-cultured - even though he hangs out with a very much showbiz world. And also the theme of this book is greatly misleading. It is not one writer vs. another writer. Both men seem to like each other and their taste does match here and there. A lot of moaning over nothing, and makes one dig into another generation of French thinkers. Foucault here I come!
What these two do is moan about their public identity, and their importance to culture. Which may be true (and I am a fan of Houellebecq) but it is almost like a Saturday Night Live skit. They're hysterical but I don't think they mean it in that light.
Of the two, Houellebecq is more interesting on many many levels. He is the only one to use rock n' roll references, and it surprises me that Henri-Lévy is not more pop-cultured - even though he hangs out with a very much showbiz world. And also the theme of this book is greatly misleading. It is not one writer vs. another writer. Both men seem to like each other and their taste does match here and there. A lot of moaning over nothing, and makes one dig into another generation of French thinkers. Foucault here I come!
July 31, 2015
Een briefwisseling tussen Lévy, Frankrijks bekendste voorvechter van de mensenrechten en de provocateur onder de Franse schrijvers, Houellebecq. Je moet het inderdaad maar durven. Op de eerste pagina benoemt Houellebecq zowel zichzelf als Lévy "verachtelijke individuen" en daarmee is de toon gezet. Natuurlijk schrijft Houellebecq dit om aan te duiden dat de mening over de twee schrijvers in het algemeen erg negatief is. Houellebecq spreekt deze meningen niet tegen, maar doet dus iets wat men niet verwacht: hij zet ze neer als feiten. Ik heb ontzettend genoten van dit boek. Enerzijds heb ik veel geleerd van deze twee 'verachtelijke' schrijvers. Anderzijds bevestigt Houellebecq zijn tegenstrijdige persoonlijkheid en schrijfstijl. De puzzel is niet opgelost, maar blijkt alleen maar moeilijker. En over Lévy? Hij is echt zo slecht nog niet.
December 26, 2011
My rating will tend to cling to the Houellebecq sections as I find BHL ever-dull and prone to posing beyond his depth. Cher H's diatribes against contemporary public spaces (bubbles of enforced conformity between private residences) and the stench of political participation (leave it to the users, darling) are gripping reading and his recollections of his father and his childhood are quick to unsettle.
July 22, 2018
Michel Houellebecq—poetic incel par excellence! Bernard-Henri Levy—ladies’ man cum defender of tiny Third World peoples! The two of them were clearly paid a great deal of money to discuss their life and work. Houellebecq, of course, is the wiser of the two, and speaks in a candid, intimate register that the expansive bloviator BHL can’t hack.
January 19, 2019
Not my cup of tea...
October 12, 2024
Thought-provoking.
Read
October 30, 2021Ich glaube Zizek meinte er würde BHL **********. Auf jeden Fall nachvollziehbar
February 21, 2018
Силно предразполагаща към доверие и симпатия и в същото време атакуема и спорна в своята заявена, порфесионално развита "художествена откровеност". Задължителна за всеки, интересуващ се от Уелбек. Падналите люспи броня не са една и две.
February 26, 2014
"Siamo un incontro di identità molteplici, spezzate, contraddittorie, in lotta le une con le altre, in pace, di nuovo in lotta. Non siamo un soggeto, siamo una voliera."
Dai dialoghi di platoniana memoria ai carteggi intellettualistici dell'età contemporanea, disparati sono i motivi, i temi e le suggestioni che nel corso del tempo hanno avviato scambi e confronti dialettici: ed ecco che piomba sulla Francia contemporanea, a ridare vigore, forse, a un confronto culturale che si è ridotto a una monologante ridondanza di critici, questo libro, questo scambio epistolare, che già si propone, con la sua motivazione originaria, di rifondere vitalità al dibattito culturale. Cosa hanno in comune Houellebecq e BHL? Sono due stronzi. O almeno, sono considerati tali dalla Francia tutta, da quella che legge e quella che scrive.
E' l'autore de Le particelle elementari a tendere la mano all'altro, introducendo la prima analogia che ha scoperto. Due nemici pubblici, due chiassosi disturbatori, due bastian contrari perennemente in contraddizione. Un controverso scrittore che si scopre filosofo, che si definisce apolitico ma poi loda Sarkozy, fosse solo perché ha sistematicamente e coerentemente realizzato il suo comunque pessimo programma elettorale; un filosofo snobbato che si scopre scrittore , che non perde occasione di lanciare strali contro Sarkozy, salvo poi inorridire all'idea di venir chiamato a fare il Ministro della Cultura in un ipotetico e utopistico governo socialista.
Houellebecq e BHL sono due personalità complesse, contraddittorie al punto giusto: è, ironicamente, la loro capacità di contraddirsi che permette loro di intavolare un confronto e di trovare punti di incontro altrimenti impossibili, dando vita a un dialogo che ingloba i due interlocutori, li mastica, li digerisce e li sputa via completamente trasformati, Lèvy ebreo-non ebreo, Houellebecq cinico nichilista e poi desidorioso di uno spiritualismo che forse non c'è.
Un libro interessante per chi conosce anche uno solo dei due interlocutori, o entrambi, tanto alla fine li si riscopre completamente. Un libro interessante anche per chi voglia ignorare i due autori, preferendo attingere alla fonte di conoscenza varia e cultura che i due, di tanto in tanto, offrono al lettore. Perché i due nemici pubblici parlano di tutto e tutti, ripetendo e smentendo, offrendo così lo spettro più vasto possibile della verità. Dalla letteratura francese alla filosofia, quindi alla politica e alla religione, e così di nuovo alla filosofia, finché Houellebecq scopre di essere filosofo e non romanziere, e la filosofia, strappata via dal campo dell'indagine razionale della realtà, viene ridisegnata come interpretazione linguistica della realtà.
Si potrà esser d'accordo con l'uno o con l'altro (io, ammetto, continuavo a cambiare opinione), oppure disdegnare ferocemente entrambi, ma Nemici pubblici rimane un testo capace di offrire mille e più spunti di riflessione: Houellebecq e Lèvy si mettono a nudo e ci regalano il loro epistolario, liberi voi di farci quel che volete.
Dai dialoghi di platoniana memoria ai carteggi intellettualistici dell'età contemporanea, disparati sono i motivi, i temi e le suggestioni che nel corso del tempo hanno avviato scambi e confronti dialettici: ed ecco che piomba sulla Francia contemporanea, a ridare vigore, forse, a un confronto culturale che si è ridotto a una monologante ridondanza di critici, questo libro, questo scambio epistolare, che già si propone, con la sua motivazione originaria, di rifondere vitalità al dibattito culturale. Cosa hanno in comune Houellebecq e BHL? Sono due stronzi. O almeno, sono considerati tali dalla Francia tutta, da quella che legge e quella che scrive.
E' l'autore de Le particelle elementari a tendere la mano all'altro, introducendo la prima analogia che ha scoperto. Due nemici pubblici, due chiassosi disturbatori, due bastian contrari perennemente in contraddizione. Un controverso scrittore che si scopre filosofo, che si definisce apolitico ma poi loda Sarkozy, fosse solo perché ha sistematicamente e coerentemente realizzato il suo comunque pessimo programma elettorale; un filosofo snobbato che si scopre scrittore , che non perde occasione di lanciare strali contro Sarkozy, salvo poi inorridire all'idea di venir chiamato a fare il Ministro della Cultura in un ipotetico e utopistico governo socialista.
Houellebecq e BHL sono due personalità complesse, contraddittorie al punto giusto: è, ironicamente, la loro capacità di contraddirsi che permette loro di intavolare un confronto e di trovare punti di incontro altrimenti impossibili, dando vita a un dialogo che ingloba i due interlocutori, li mastica, li digerisce e li sputa via completamente trasformati, Lèvy ebreo-non ebreo, Houellebecq cinico nichilista e poi desidorioso di uno spiritualismo che forse non c'è.
Un libro interessante per chi conosce anche uno solo dei due interlocutori, o entrambi, tanto alla fine li si riscopre completamente. Un libro interessante anche per chi voglia ignorare i due autori, preferendo attingere alla fonte di conoscenza varia e cultura che i due, di tanto in tanto, offrono al lettore. Perché i due nemici pubblici parlano di tutto e tutti, ripetendo e smentendo, offrendo così lo spettro più vasto possibile della verità. Dalla letteratura francese alla filosofia, quindi alla politica e alla religione, e così di nuovo alla filosofia, finché Houellebecq scopre di essere filosofo e non romanziere, e la filosofia, strappata via dal campo dell'indagine razionale della realtà, viene ridisegnata come interpretazione linguistica della realtà.
Si potrà esser d'accordo con l'uno o con l'altro (io, ammetto, continuavo a cambiare opinione), oppure disdegnare ferocemente entrambi, ma Nemici pubblici rimane un testo capace di offrire mille e più spunti di riflessione: Houellebecq e Lèvy si mettono a nudo e ci regalano il loro epistolario, liberi voi di farci quel che volete.
April 25, 2011
I really don’t know what to make of this book. As another reviewer said, there really should have been an introduction to put the dialogue in context. I started out just finding it annoying—it seemed to be over-abstract and I couldn’t help feeling like they were looking at the camera—so to speak—rather than at each other. But the book, and they, started to grow on me towards the end. I felt especially sympathetic when Levy was expressing his own sympathy for Houellebecq when his vile mother—who abandoned him—started to malign him to the press. They did seem to find common ground and not just by both being frequent targets of press attacks.
Bernard-Henri Levy:
“Words or things? I can’t even understand how the question can be formulated.//Literature or life? Life because of literature; for me life does not ‘live,’ it is not profoundly and carnally life unless I know that I can snatch words from it.” 238-9
“As a rule I don’t really believe in dialogue. As a philosopher I should—see Plato, Berkeley, Hume, Leibniz and so many others.//But the truth is, I don’t believe in it, and in real life I’ve never understood the theory according to which it is enough to oppose each other, confront arguments and counterarguments, for the shadows of ignorance to lift as if by magic. In most discussions people arrive with their convictions and leave with the same ones.” 286
“By contrast with Sartre, who confused putting words with placing in a coffin, I can imagine no happier place to stay in life than in a page of literature.” 239
“you write in order to find out not so much who you are as who you’re becoming.”
Michel Houellebecq:
“Developing an overweening national pride is always a sign, to my mind, that you have nothing much else to be proud of.” 108
“people who are complete atheists and who are therefore convinced of their complete ontological solitude, of their absolute, irremediable mortality, still go on believing in love, or at least behaving as though they believe.//And go on believing in moral law and go on behaving according to its tenets.” 145
“Human beings, in general, are possessed of a surprising ontological self-importance.//But they can have their free will, since they’re so keen on it; it’s like a decoration, it doesn’t cost much and people seem to like it.” 170
“Perhaps certain people have made love in a state of complete lucidity; I don’t envy them. The only thing I have ever managed to do in a state of complete lucidity is balance my checkbook or pack my suitcase.” 274
“For certain authors, the self, the miserable everyday self, is a privileged means of accessing the universal: I am not one of them.” 280
“One of the things Schopenhauer wrote…’We remember our lives a little better than a novel we once read.’ To which I would add that we remember our lives a little less well than a novel we once wrote.” 300
Bernard-Henri Levy:
“Words or things? I can’t even understand how the question can be formulated.//Literature or life? Life because of literature; for me life does not ‘live,’ it is not profoundly and carnally life unless I know that I can snatch words from it.” 238-9
“As a rule I don’t really believe in dialogue. As a philosopher I should—see Plato, Berkeley, Hume, Leibniz and so many others.//But the truth is, I don’t believe in it, and in real life I’ve never understood the theory according to which it is enough to oppose each other, confront arguments and counterarguments, for the shadows of ignorance to lift as if by magic. In most discussions people arrive with their convictions and leave with the same ones.” 286
“By contrast with Sartre, who confused putting words with placing in a coffin, I can imagine no happier place to stay in life than in a page of literature.” 239
“you write in order to find out not so much who you are as who you’re becoming.”
Michel Houellebecq:
“Developing an overweening national pride is always a sign, to my mind, that you have nothing much else to be proud of.” 108
“people who are complete atheists and who are therefore convinced of their complete ontological solitude, of their absolute, irremediable mortality, still go on believing in love, or at least behaving as though they believe.//And go on believing in moral law and go on behaving according to its tenets.” 145
“Human beings, in general, are possessed of a surprising ontological self-importance.//But they can have their free will, since they’re so keen on it; it’s like a decoration, it doesn’t cost much and people seem to like it.” 170
“Perhaps certain people have made love in a state of complete lucidity; I don’t envy them. The only thing I have ever managed to do in a state of complete lucidity is balance my checkbook or pack my suitcase.” 274
“For certain authors, the self, the miserable everyday self, is a privileged means of accessing the universal: I am not one of them.” 280
“One of the things Schopenhauer wrote…’We remember our lives a little better than a novel we once read.’ To which I would add that we remember our lives a little less well than a novel we once wrote.” 300
April 26, 2009
Ennemis Publics m´a pris plus que 4 mois á terminer faute de bien comprendre tout, car le livre est assez exigeant.
Les remarques de Houllebecq sont plus marrantes que celles de BHL, sauf quelques remarques sur l´amertume ou la déception:
"Entre celui qui vit dans le ressentiment, intoxiqué par l´esprit de rancune, aliéné á sa mélancolie et á son mauvais sang et celui qui, pas tellement par vertu, mais par complexion, ou par auto-dressage, ou parce qu´il a juste mieux á faire (par example un nouveau livre), parvient á échapper á ce manège des passions toxiques, le rapport de forces est assez simple. C´est le second qui, pour des raisons, encore une fois, de pure mécanique passionnelle, l´emporte sur le premier. La joie rend intelligent et fort; la méchanceté est un poison et ce poison, á plus ou moins long terme, tue."
Je trouve, qu´il a éternellement raison, et il m´a pris une éternité avant de le comprendre.
Les remarques de Houllebecq sont plus marrantes que celles de BHL, sauf quelques remarques sur l´amertume ou la déception:
"Entre celui qui vit dans le ressentiment, intoxiqué par l´esprit de rancune, aliéné á sa mélancolie et á son mauvais sang et celui qui, pas tellement par vertu, mais par complexion, ou par auto-dressage, ou parce qu´il a juste mieux á faire (par example un nouveau livre), parvient á échapper á ce manège des passions toxiques, le rapport de forces est assez simple. C´est le second qui, pour des raisons, encore une fois, de pure mécanique passionnelle, l´emporte sur le premier. La joie rend intelligent et fort; la méchanceté est un poison et ce poison, á plus ou moins long terme, tue."
Je trouve, qu´il a éternellement raison, et il m´a pris une éternité avant de le comprendre.
April 27, 2011
Usually letters between famous people are published posthumously. The fact these are out a year later is simply how things work now I suppose. I wonder if these were handwritten letters or e-mails actually. The very act of writing traditional letters is a self-conscious throwback but then again so is this whole interchange--very deliberately so.
Im a fanatic for Houellebecq's style and attitude so I lapped up the early sections: "We have contributed nothing to France's electropop revival. We weren't even mentioned in the credits of Ratatouille." By the end I'm glad to find be rid of some of my hero worship as his lesser material wearies me. His critics say he didn't understand all of what BHL said and neither did I. So I borrowed the english version from my local library and am now going through the annotated footnotes.
Im a fanatic for Houellebecq's style and attitude so I lapped up the early sections: "We have contributed nothing to France's electropop revival. We weren't even mentioned in the credits of Ratatouille." By the end I'm glad to find be rid of some of my hero worship as his lesser material wearies me. His critics say he didn't understand all of what BHL said and neither did I. So I borrowed the english version from my local library and am now going through the annotated footnotes.
June 25, 2011
I was interested in this book because I am a fan of Michel Houellebecq's novels and do not have much love for Bernard-Henri Levi. I knew that this was a series of open letters that the two authors penned to each other. As the title suggests, I expected it to be fairly contentious and I hoped that Houellbecq would win. What I got was something else entirely. Slow at first, the book developed and actually became a page turner as I couldn't wait to see each response. While much of the time it seems like the two men are merely flexing their literary muscles to show each other how brilliant they are, always competing to see who can cite the most obscure poet, the ideas they share are quite interesting. In the end, I enjoyed the book and found it very thought provoking. I even found a few new authors by tracking down the innumerable literary references in the footnotes.
August 26, 2012
I found it incredibly difficult to care about anything that Bernard-Henri had to say. He has an incredibly sharp mind, but his curiousity flounders in self-importance. Maybe his incessant name-dropping is some kind of inside joke, but I found him otherwise to be completely without humour, and worse yet, dull.
Michel Houellebecq, on the other hand, is honest, insightful, and entertaining. Granted, I don't read French tabloids, so half the controversy went over my head. But I appreciated that his personal revelations confirmed and enhanced my understanding of his novels. Is it fair to say he is a slightly less funny, slightly more literate French Kurt Vonnegut?
Michel Houellebecq, on the other hand, is honest, insightful, and entertaining. Granted, I don't read French tabloids, so half the controversy went over my head. But I appreciated that his personal revelations confirmed and enhanced my understanding of his novels. Is it fair to say he is a slightly less funny, slightly more literate French Kurt Vonnegut?
August 22, 2015
Houellebecq is like a troll who deliberately confuses Star Wars and Star Trek just to see who'll out themselves as a nerd. In this case it's BHL. It seems like each of Houellebecq's letters has a sentence in it designed specifically to get BHL to spend seven or eight paragraphs spouting liberal dogma. Not that BHL is necessarily wrong, but Houellebecq moves on to tell interesting stories and explore interesting hypotheses while BHL sounds like a CNN anchor trying to summarize the mainstream consensus.
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