For the miserable loners who populate Michel Houellebecq’s novels, there is no refuge from the modern world’s awfulness—“no Israel,” as one of them says. Over three decades, the French novelist has tallied the grim costs of “l’extension du domaine de la lutte”—“the extension of the domain of the struggle”—his phrase for the unrelenting spread of economic liberalism and the infiltration of its pitiless logic into our love and sex lives.
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