Plateforme

Under the trauma of recently finishing yet another painfully formidable Houellebecq marathon. Unscathed, am I? Of course not. What is most striking is that for all his usual (and quite effective/convincing/spot-on) misanthropical demolition of humanity in general (Westerners, Japs, Marxists, Islamists, monotheisms, you name it) his conclusion remains somehow so simple, traditional, unsurprising and obvious: L-O-V-E.
"Is she really going out with him?" Fuck. We're fucked, as a whole. That's when I reach for my revolver, now, I believe. Desperate, long, long hours. Justifies my belief that one should never pass the chance of murmuring the words "I love you". Sounds corny, outdated, but I mean it. And I believe he does too.