Ostensibly a debate between two rival writers, this rather clumsily translated discourse appears to be more of a diatribe between a pair of rather pompous literary intellectuals.
The New York Times succinctly describes the book as a classic case of "moasting" - or the authors' mournful boasting as a means of self-glorification.
Most of the time their exchange reads like a transcript of a drunken brawl between two inebriated school boys outside the Moulin Rouge, each shouting cheap "yo momma" slurs at the other.
Yet in the midst of all their seemingly narcissistic claims to literary genius, their philosophical posturing, lofty name-dropping and measured misquoting of everybody from Marx to Malraux, the book is not entirely without merit.
On the question "why do we write ?", Houellbecq answers that it is because writing is one of the only two things that matter in life.. the other being the obvious. Moreover both are best done when one is half asleep. It then follows that writers go through life only half awake.
It's probably memorable gems like this that made the book the best-seller it has turned out to be.
Like french cuisine the book is profoundly pretentious, and like french cuisine, it leaves a pleasantly subtle after-taste.
It is to be read slowly with a great deal of attention. The devil is definitely in the detail.
