Free The Possibility of an Island by Michel Houellebecq, Gavin Bowd Page A

theaters laugh their heads off with these kinds of themes; and they had earned me considerable sums of money. Nevertheless, this time they concerned me directly, and this opposition between eroticism and tenderness appeared to me as it really is: one of the worst examples of bullshit of our time, one of those that sign, definitively, the death warrant of civilization. “The laughing’s over, you little bugger…,” I repeated to myself with disturbing gaiety (because at that time the sentence turned over and over in my head, I couldn’t stop it, eighteen tablets of Atarax made no difference, and I ended up resorting to a pastis-Tranxene cocktail). “But the one who loves someone for her beauty, does he love her? No: for the pox, which will kill beauty without killing the person, will make him stop loving her.” Pascal did not know Cointreau. It is also true that, living in a time when bodies were less on show, he overestimated the importance of the beauty of the face. The worst part of it is that it was not her beauty, in the first place, that I had found attractive in Isabelle: intelligent women have always turned me on. To tell the truth, intelligence is not very useful in sexual intercourse, and it serves really only one purpose: to know at which moment you should put your hand on a man’s cock in a public place. All men like this; it’s the monkey’s sense of domination, residual traces of that kind of thing, and it would be stupid not to realize it; the only issue is the choice of the time, and the place. Some men prefer that the indecent gesture be witnessed by a woman; others, probably those who are a little gay or very dominant, prefer it to be another man; others still find nothing pleases them as much as a couple giving them a complicit look. Some prefer trains, others swimming pools, others nightclubs or bars; an intelligent woman knows this. Anyway, I still had good memories of being with Isabelle. At the end of each night I could conjure up sweeter and quasi-nostalgic thoughts; at this point, at my side, she would be snoring like a cow. Dawn approached, and I realized that these memories, also, would vanish quite quickly; it was then that I opted for the pastis-Tranxene cocktail.
     
     
    On the practical level, there was no immediate problem: we had seventeen bedrooms. I moved into one of those overlooking the cliffs and the sea; Isabelle, apparently, preferred to contemplate inland. Fox went from room to room, it amused him a lot; he suffered no more from it than a child from the divorce of his parents, rather less, I’d say.
    Could things continue in this way for a long time? Well, unfortunately, yes. During my absence, I had received 732 faxes (and I must acknowledge, there too, that Isabelle had regularly changed the paper tray); I could spend the rest of my days running from one festival invitation to the next. From time to time, I’d stop by: a little caress for Fox, a little bit of Tranxene, and Bob’s your uncle. For the moment, however, I was in need of a complete rest. I therefore went to the beach, on my own, obviously—I wanked a little on the terrace while ogling naked teenage girls (I too had bought a telescope, but it wasn’t for looking at the stars, ha ha ha); in short, I was muddling through. I muddled more or less well; although, all the same, I almost threw myself off the cliff three times in two weeks.
     
     
    I revisited Harry, and he was on form; Truman, however, had aged. We were invited again to dinner, this time in the company of a Belgian couple who had just settled in the region. Harry had introduced the man as a
Belgian philosopher.
In reality, after completing his doctorate in philosophy, he had passed the civil service exam, then led the dreary life of a tax inspector (with conviction, however, for, as a socialist supporter, he believed in the benefits of high taxation). He had published, here and there, a few philosophical articles in journals of a materialist bent.