Michel Houellebecq — arguably the most important French writer of the past quarter-century — was perched on the seat of his chair like a bird. We were sitting in his dim Paris apartment in August, a spectacularly beautiful day visible through his curtained windows, to discuss his new novel, “Annihilation,” which appears this week and returns to the themes of male loneliness and civilizational decline that have made his reputation. During our time together, Houellebecq, who is 68, would slump deeper and deeper in his chair, to the point where it seemed he would need help rising, only to pop back up, with unexpected agility, to balance once again on the balls of his feet. I had been trying to ask him about his life, but he was deftly deflecting personal questions — he had been answering them for decades and seemed done with that dance — until I asked him to tell me a little bit about his early life as a reader.
Read Full Article »
