Great.
The Possibility of An Island is incredible. How I haven’t read this book until recently, I don’t know. Within two days, I had not only devoured the book but was intensely inspired by the story. Houellebecq’s ability to render such a philosophical, satirical and acutely sociological novel is amazing. Told from the future, when all humanity has diminished and been replaced with pseudo-human emotionally deficient pods, it is his emphasis on hope and love that are most surprising. The protagonist is bitter and crude, pretentious yet seemingly stable–despite his willingness to explore a cult in his old age. Despite his ostentatious desire to find love in its most foundational form. The society around him has begun opting out of child-bearing and killing themselves at the age of fifty. Old age becomes something rare and sexual freedom is promoted, encouraged, and practiced by the youth of the time. They choose not to have monogamous relations, instead participating in orgies, sexual deviance and excessive drug use. Which, of course, seems always to be what the youth is doing. However, that lack of emotional attachment to anyone or anything, the turning of one-self solely into one self and promoting narcissism results in mass suicides of the elderly and a rapid decline in human population. People have a vain urge to reproduce themselves, clone themselves, and continue ‘their story’ generation after generation. And each one of these progressive generations become less and less human like, experience less and less emotions and become more and more pointless.
The protagonist realizes, at about forty that he has loved two different people in his entire life. The first being one devoid of sex and the second being a sexual relationship devoid of love. These two, in his comparison become astutely similar. At first, he describes love as being necessarily requited, but soon he loves a girl who doesn’t love him (doesn’t have the capacity, it seems) and despite how embarrassing and pathetic his feelings are toward her blatant disinterest, his feelings of love are gracious and satisfying enough to combat his ego and the loneliness he’s found in old age. She, of course thinks it’s pathetic. But it’s more than explicit who, of the two, has the upper hand. She is unnervingly detached from her emotions, as he, in his final moments on earth, clings desperately to his emotions.
The science fiction aspect of the book is entertaining, sort of boring, yet necessary. Because that’s what happens when there all emotions cease–boredom. Without pain, there isn’t pleasure, without sadness there is no happiness. Therefore, humans become apathetic and well, boring. Sounds familiar. With the loss of emotion would logically follow the loss of passion.
(Rant starts here, sorry.)
Passion is not something that can be transferred or stolen, borrowed or copied. Passion is something that lies completely in the emotional field and completely in one’s uniquity. The world today seems crowded with people who see and do. Someone sees someone reading something and reads it. Another person sees someone wearing something and wears it. We are in an age of ultimate imitation, more so than previous generations it seems. As soon as we find something ‘interesting’ or ‘cool’ we immediately think we can position it inside ourselves, make it as our own. But this, I think, is why there are so many failures–as harsh as that sounds. Despite the loss of originality and the attainment of ‘cool,’ people are merely producing Xerox’s of other people’s genuine passion. What seems to be happening is that some are abandoning their passion for the zest they see in others, hoping this will make them happy, that this is their ticket. But imitation is hardly ever satisfying. And in all, lacks substantial quality. This may seem obvious, but people who feign attraction to the arts help to, in actuality, kill it. They are less interested in the art of things, but in the status of appreciation that others see them partaking in them. If you do not have a genuine passion for writing, you shouldn’t do it. If your writing takes on the quality of your favorite author, you are doing not only that author a dis-service, but also society. Please be driven by passion. Hipsters, in many instances, epitomize this soul-less reproduction of passion. Indie bands concerned more with their outfits than their music, authors concerned more with their fedoras and the ‘image’ of being a writer than the insatiable passion to observe and record the world, to delve into a narrative, to use real words instead of adjectives, big words and fucking fluff (that has to stop), artists who splash paint on a canvas, wear overalls mired in paint they haven’t used on anything substantial–self described ‘artistes’ who know nothing about the form or the drive or the love of it…it’s annoying and lame. Passion is individual. If you are passionate about music, be a musician, forget how much you suck. If you are passionate about art, do it. But don’t acquire a handful of books someone else gave you, pretend to love them because it seems cool to, say they’re your favorite books before even reading them and write because it’s something that seems ‘interesting.’ Love it, dammit, or don’t do it–your lack of passion and substance is killing those who actually have it.
(Ok, I’m done with rants for a while, promise.)
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