Atomised

Driving back from training the other night, I turned on the radio, which is something I almost never do. I don’t listen to the radio, read the papers or watch TV. Rather irresponsible behaviour for a writer, but. I figure that the truly momentous events, the wars, tsunami, gangland murders in Limerick and sex scandals of the rich and famous, will somehow filter through me by word of mouth. It’s a pretty good system.

A novel. It was recognisably a novel. Was it fiction? I caught it in the middle. I was hypnotised. Waiting outside the house for the reading to finish, in the cold car. 11:30 pm on a weekday. What if they were reading the whole book, what if it lasted all night? Yet I couldn’t leave. Who was this man, this writer? French words thrown in. But not in the awkward, fake way than an English writer would. Yet not a translation. Too good to be a translation. A man talking about his life, his innermost, womanmost thoughts. Analysing. Talking to his brother, this was the narrative device. Not a very effective device, but the language, the voice, was amazing. How can one write so much, and so well, about nothing. I fell in love. Then found out it was Michel Houellebecq(yes, French. And yes, a translation). The book: Les Particules Elementaires (Atomised). Wow. What do I do now? Do I throw everyting away? Do I start again? Is there any point? Can I write after this? Why did I have to listen to it?