Is Michel Houellebecq The French Jonathan Franzen?
On the lengths to which we'll go to defend our great white male novelists.
Priscilla Frank
I have a small confession to make: I have never read the books of Karl Ove Knausgaard.
I’d be embarrassed to admit this, save that Knausgaard makes a similar confession in his recent review of Michel Houellebecq’s controversial novel Submission. The piece, published in The New York Times Book Review, documents all the Houellebecq he’s failed to read.
Fortunately, we learn, Knausgaard takes it upon himself to remedy this, settling down with a cigarette to read a copy of the new Houellebecq, which has been mailed to him. He’s also unfamiliar with author J.K. Huysmans, whose writings form a thematic foundation for Submission. He reads Huysmans’ best-known novel while sipping at a cup of coffee on the sidelines of his daughter’s gymnastics practice.
Halfway through this navel-gazing review, becoming bored and irritated, I began to remember why I’d steered clear of Knausgaard.
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