Tämä sivusto käyttää evästeitä palvelujen toimittamiseen, toiminnan parantamiseen, analytiikkaan ja (jos et ole kirjautunut sisään) mainostamiseen. Käyttämällä LibraryThingiä ilmaiset, että olet lukenut ja ymmärtänyt käyttöehdot ja yksityisyydensuojakäytännöt. Sivujen ja palveluiden käytön tulee olla näiden ehtojen ja käytäntöjen mukaista.
"Michel Houellebecq's Serotonin is a caustic, frightening, hilarious, raunchy, offensive, and politically incorrect novel about the decline of Europe, Western civilization, and humanity in general. Deeply depressed by his romantic and professional failures, the aging hedonist and agricultural engineer Florent-Claude Labrouste feels he is "dying of sadness." He hates his young girlfriend, and the feeling is almost certainly mutual; his career is pretty much over; and he has to keep himself thoroughly medicated to cope with day-to-day life. Suffocating in the rampant loneliness, consumerism, hedonism, and sprawl of the city, Labrouste decides to head for the hills, returning to Normandy, where he once worked promoting regional cheeses and where he was once in love, and even -- it now seems -- happy. There he finds a countryside devastated by globalization and by European agricultural policies, and encounters farmers longing, like Labrouste himself, for an impossible return to a simpler age. As the farmers prepare for what might be an armed insurrection, it becomes clear that the health of one miserable body and of a suffering body politic are not so different, and that all parties may be rushing toward a catastrophe that a whole drugstore's worth of antidepressants won't make bearable." --… (lisätietoja)
This is a dark and in several places disgusting book - of course that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’ve always appreciated an artist that tells the truth, even when the truth is a despicable feeling or opinion or action. Houellebecq’s reputation most certainly precede him, so I expected something of this sort from this book. But there still was a scene towards the end of the book (those who read it know the one) that had me tense with anxiety, feeling the vertigo one feels when dealing with an artist and an art work where you truly don’t know what will happen next. However you might criticize this book as grumpy, depressive, narcissistic, the fact that the writer could incite that kind of reaction speaks to the power of his book. One thing I will always respect is a powerful work of art.
But, this book is kind of annoying, and the person we are forced to listen to for it’s duration is empty, occasionally boring, detestable, and nihilistic. He can’t even bring himself to hate others, despite his pitiful state, even hate requires too much energy to muster. Strangely it didn’t become clear to me that this is a memoir of depression and specifically antidepressants until the very end, when it is explicitly stated. I think I was too blinded by the narrators identity as a well-off, well-educated, cologne scented yuppie to pity him in any meaningful way, though to be fair he also seems blinded himself but the very same things. He is, however in a pitiful state. The medication he takes is something like a hidden main character, possibly contributing to the course of the plot as much as any kind of desire or will on the part of our narrator.
As someone who has struggled with depression and also taken medication to “treat” it, I sympathize with the idea that Houellebecq seems to be putting forward here: our world and society has degenerated to a point where depression and induced mental illness is almost endemic. We need medication to carry on, to “treat” our (in many cases, well founded) melancholia and various anxieties. Yet in this medicated state we are neutered (literally and spiritually) and though our suffering is deadened so are so many of the other stimulations that make up a life. The novel presents us with two options: a violent death in the search for a cause, or withering away in a stifled, stunted state. ( )
I am so glad to have finished this book! One of the grimmest I have ever read. I had been putting off reading Houellebecq after a recommendation of over a decade old, putting it off out of a presentiment of danger. This presentiment was not unfounded—indeed, were I to surrender to the vision of this text, I would be in danger. The even pace of the prose swallows some seriously disturbing content. Is a claim to verisimilitude enough? While pessimism and bleakness are common in literature (why), particularly contemporary literature, this is an exemplar. The narrator’s outlook is so dispiriting. And that, I reckon, is the point. Having said all that, I did laugh at certain points throughout the book. There might have been a different reading accessible to me, had I conceptualized the book as satire. ( )
Florent, a middle-aged agronomist, is fed up; his career is going nowhere and his young girlfriend detests him. He decides to simply walk out on his life and disappear but, before he does so, he gets a prescription for an anti-depressant that will boost his serotonin and, hopefully, relieve his depression.
In the course of his disappearing, Florent returns to memories of a happier part of his life, when he enjoyed two close relationships with beautiful women, and also with a male friend from his college days, Aymeric. He visits the latter at his Normandy farm, to find that his life is in not much better shape.
This is a pretty dark account of depressed lives progressing grimly on an unhappy path. It is not easy reading. It also contains graphic descriptions of bestiality and paedophilia; this is not a book for the squeamish.
Tiedot ranskankielisestä Yhteisestä tiedosta.Muokkaa kotoistaaksesi se omalle kielellesi.
C’est un petit comprimé blanc, ovale, sécable. Vers cinq heures du matin ou parfois six je me réveille, le besoin est à son comble, c’est le moment le plus douloureux de ma journée.
Sitaatit
Tiedot italiankielisestä Yhteisestä tiedosta.Muokkaa kotoistaaksesi se omalle kielellesi.
La nicotina è una droga perfetta, una droga semplice e dura, che non dà nessuna gioia, che si definisce interamente con l'astinenza, e con la cessazione dell'astinenza.
Cambiare nome non è difficile, ovviamente non intendo dal punto di vista amministrativo, dal punto di vista amministrativo non è possibile quasi niente, l'amministrazione ha come scopo ridurre al massimo le tue possibilità di vita, sempre che non riesca molto semplicemente a distruggerla, dal punto di vista dell'amministrazione un buon amministrato è un amministrato morto, …
È sbagliato che due persone che si amano parlino la stessa lingua, è sbagliato che possano davvero capirsi, che possano comunicare con le parole, perché la vocazione della parola non è creare amore bensì divisione e odio, la parola separa man mano che avviene, laddove un informe balbettio amoroso, semilinguistico, il parlare alla propria donna o al proprio uomo come si parlerebbe al proprio cane, crea la condizione di un amore incondizionato e duraturo. Se almeno ci si potesse limitare a concetti immediati e concreti – dove sono le chiavi del garage? a che ora viene l'elettricista? – potrebbe ancora andar bene, ma più in là inizia il regno della discordia, del disamore e del divorzio.
… i soldi andavano ai soldi e accompagnavano il potere, ecco qual era l'ultima parola dell'organizzazione sociale.
… personalmente me ne sbattevo alla grande della mia vita lavorativa, credo di non averci mai pensato per più di mezzo minuto, mi sembrava impossibile che ci si interessasse seriamente ad altro che alle ragazze – e la cosa peggiore è che a quarantasei anni mi rendevo conto che all'epoca avevo avuto ragione, le ragazze saranno anche puttane, la si può vedere in questo modo, ma la vita lavorativa è una puttana molto più smaccata, e per giunta non ti dà nessun piacere.
… finì in un modo spaventosamente stupido, cose del genere non dovrebbero succedere, eppure succedono, succedono ogni giorno. Dio è uno sceneggiatore mediocre, è questa la convinzione che quasi cinquant'anni di esistenza mi hanno portato a maturare, e più in generale Dio è un mediocre, nella sua creazione non c'è niente che non abbia il segno dell'approssimazione e dell'insuccesso, quando non quello della cattiveria pura e semplice, ovviamente ci sono eccezioni, ci sono per forza eccezioni, la possibilità della felicità doveva sussistere ‘già solo in quanto esca’, …
Le unità di cure palliative … affrontano quelle richieste con competenza e umanità, le persone che ci lavorano sono ammirevoli, appartengono all'esiguo e coraggioso contingente di quelle “piccole persone ammirevoli” che permettono il funzionamento della società in un'epoca complessivamente disumana e di merda.
… è del tutto inutile, mi dicevo, cercare di far qualcosa per la vita delle persone, né l'amicizia né la compassione né la psicologia né la comprensione delle situazioni hanno la minima utilità, le persone costruiscono esse stesse il meccanismo della propria infelicità, caricano al massimo la molla e poi il meccanismo continua a girare, ineluttabilmente, con qualche intoppo, qualche rallentamento se s'intromette la malattia, ma continua a girare fino alla fine, fino all'ultimo secondo.
… me ne tornai a letto quasi rasserenato a dimostrazione di quanto ci rassicuri, in mezzo ai nostri drammi, l'esistenza di altri drammi che ci siano stati risparmiati.
… le trasmissioni culinarie si erano moltiplicate in proporzioni notevoli – mentre, contemporaneamente, l'erotismo andava sparendo dalla maggior parte dei canali. La Francia, e forse l'intero Occidente, stava indubbiamente regredendo allo ‘stadio orale’, per dirla con le parole del buffone austriaco.
Una Lolita sarebbe stata in grado di far ‘perdere la testa’ a Thomas Mann; Rhianna avrebbe fatto ‘sbarellare’ Marcel Proust; quei due autori, vette delle rispettive letterature, non erano, per dirla con altre parole, uomini dignitosi, e si sarebbe dovuto risalire più indietro, all'inizio del XIX secolo, ai tempi del romanticismo nascente, per respirare un'aria più salubre e pura.
La mia memoria delle date era più incerta, le date erano prive d'importanza, qualunque cosa succedesse succedeva per l'eternità, adesso lo sapevo, ma si trattava di un'eternità chiusa, inaccessibile.
In realtà Dio si occupa di noi, pensa a noi in ogni istante, e a volte ci dà direttive molto precise. Questi slanci d'amore che affluiscono ai nostri petti fino a mozzarci il fiato, queste illuminazioni, queste estasi, inspiegabili se consideriamo la nostra natura biologica, il nostro statuto di semplici primati, sono segni estremamente chiari. E oggi capisco il punto di vista del Cristo, il suo ripetuto irritarsi di fronte all'insensibilità dei cuori: hanno tutti i segni, e non ne tengono conto. È proprio necessario, per giunta, che dia la mia vita per quei miserabili? È proprio necessario essere così esplicito? Parrebbe di sì.
"Michel Houellebecq's Serotonin is a caustic, frightening, hilarious, raunchy, offensive, and politically incorrect novel about the decline of Europe, Western civilization, and humanity in general. Deeply depressed by his romantic and professional failures, the aging hedonist and agricultural engineer Florent-Claude Labrouste feels he is "dying of sadness." He hates his young girlfriend, and the feeling is almost certainly mutual; his career is pretty much over; and he has to keep himself thoroughly medicated to cope with day-to-day life. Suffocating in the rampant loneliness, consumerism, hedonism, and sprawl of the city, Labrouste decides to head for the hills, returning to Normandy, where he once worked promoting regional cheeses and where he was once in love, and even -- it now seems -- happy. There he finds a countryside devastated by globalization and by European agricultural policies, and encounters farmers longing, like Labrouste himself, for an impossible return to a simpler age. As the farmers prepare for what might be an armed insurrection, it becomes clear that the health of one miserable body and of a suffering body politic are not so different, and that all parties may be rushing toward a catastrophe that a whole drugstore's worth of antidepressants won't make bearable." --
But, this book is kind of annoying, and the person we are forced to listen to for it’s duration is empty, occasionally boring, detestable, and nihilistic. He can’t even bring himself to hate others, despite his pitiful state, even hate requires too much energy to muster. Strangely it didn’t become clear to me that this is a memoir of depression and specifically antidepressants until the very end, when it is explicitly stated. I think I was too blinded by the narrators identity as a well-off, well-educated, cologne scented yuppie to pity him in any meaningful way, though to be fair he also seems blinded himself but the very same things. He is, however in a pitiful state. The medication he takes is something like a hidden main character, possibly contributing to the course of the plot as much as any kind of desire or will on the part of our narrator.
As someone who has struggled with depression and also taken medication to “treat” it, I sympathize with the idea that Houellebecq seems to be putting forward here: our world and society has degenerated to a point where depression and induced mental illness is almost endemic. We need medication to carry on, to “treat” our (in many cases, well founded) melancholia and various anxieties. Yet in this medicated state we are neutered (literally and spiritually) and though our suffering is deadened so are so many of the other stimulations that make up a life. The novel presents us with two options: a violent death in the search for a cause, or withering away in a stifled, stunted state. ( )