Bookplanet: Maybe the novel isn't dead, but the French novel could be

Anyway, that's what the Economist says:

BLEAK CHIC -- The great French novel has all but vanished

THE French rentrée in September beckons not only children back to the classroom but also book-lovers to the bookshops. This month, 633 titles will be published in French, in a ritual known as la rentrée littéraire , a publishing blitz that the reading public finds increasingly bewildering. This year's list is double the length of that six years ago, and many titles end up unsold in the stockroom. Some hard questions are now being raised. How many of these novels are really worth reading? And why are so few of these authors known outside France?

Even francophiles in the English-speaking world find it hard to list many contemporary French novelists. First on most lists would be Michel Houellebecq, who made his name with the nihilist “Les Particules Elémentaires” (“Atomised”) in 1998, and re-ignited controversy with “Plateforme” in 2001. Sure enough, his latest novel, “La Possibilité d'une Ile”, just published in French and due out in Britain in November and America next April, is the season's sensation, prompting a fresh outburst of moral indignation.

The novel is a clever blend of futuristic biogenetic fantasy with a contemporary tale of immorality, inhumanity and the cult of youth. Set 2,000 years into the future, in a world of “neo-humans”, the story unfolds through the eyes of Daniel24 and Daniel25. They are genetic clones of an original Daniel1, a self-loathing middle-aged comic who made his fortune writing misogynist, anti-Semitic and anti-Arab sketches and films, and now knocks himself out with pastis and anti-anxiety pills. His inhumanity is chilling: “The day my son committed suicide, I made myself oeufs à la tomate .”

Daniel1's boredom is interrupted by two successive women: one, Isabelle, who offers love but not sex; the other, Esther, who supplies sex but not love. Ultimately, he finds consolation in his relationship with his loyal dog, Fox, and in a sect known as the Elohimites. Based on the island of Lanzarote, this sect offers hope in a morally bankrupt post-religious society by promising immortality. Each member over the age of 50 provides a DNA sample, compiles their life story and commits suicide. A day later, a clone re-emerges in adult form. By the time of Daniel24 and Daniel25, these neo-humans are troubled by the unfamiliar tales of love, desire, tears, suffering and disappointment—all feelings that have disappeared but which they discover in the writings of Daniel1.

Mr Houellebecq does not disappoint. His deftly constructed novel is a bleak comment on contemporary society, at times funny, brutal and revolting, which pushes notions of hope and hopelessness to a dismal logical conclusion. If there are weaknesses, it is the familiarity of themes from his previous work: the commodification of sex, the interaction between modern science and spirituality, the link between happiness and suffering. Moreover, the effort to shock with semi-pornographic scenes is increasingly tiresome; his female characters are flat; and, at times, the story-telling is slow. As always, the novel has divided critical opinion. Lire , a literary magazine, charitably called it “not completely nul ”, while Le Monde said it was his “most accomplished” work so far. Like it or loathe it, this book is certainly worth reading.

Bleakness, or déprimisme , is fashionable elsewhere. “Dans la Luge d'Arthur Schopenhauer” is a new novel by Yasmina Reza, whose thoughtful plays—“Conversations After a Burial”, “Art”, “Life x 3”—have been widely translated and performed. This is a finely observed study of solitude told through a series of monologues by four characters in late middle age. Foremost is Ariel Chipman, a philosophy professor who has dedicated his life to Spinoza and the theory of the supremacy of happiness. When confronted with the reality of his own deteriorating marriage, however, theory fails to rescue him.

“Acide Sulfurique”, by Amélie Nothomb, a fashionable young writer, is another short though rather disappointing story that relies on a single, shocking idea: a reality television show called “Concentration”, in which the contestants are captured, and the penalty for eviction is the death camp. There are some interesting ideas, notably that responsibility for immorality belongs to the consumer not the producer. But, with two pale central characters, a prisoner-contestant named Pannonique and Zdena, a guard, that is not quite enough.

Much of this season's crop has the regulation French mix of philosophy and bleak chic. But, a few exceptions aside, why are there not more arresting literary voices coming out of France today? Even the French bestseller lists are peppered with American or British names. The harsh answer, argues Richard Millet, a novelist and editor, in his recent book, “Harcèlement Littéraire”, a devastating assault on the contemporary French novel, is that “French literature has become a desert.” Few others would go so far, but some acknowledge a problem. “French literature as a dominating force no longer exists,” concedes Susanna Lea, a Paris literary agent, “but it is more a wasteland than a desert: individual voices have emerged.”

Mr Millet argues that the publishing binge at la rentrée reflects a devaluation of taste and judgment, and the triumph of celebrity marketing over literary merit and stylistic elegance. The production of short easy-read novelettes, he says, has been encouraged by discredited literary prizes, whose juries seldom rotate. “The same people write, edit and sit on prize juries, so nobody dares to criticise,” he says. Others offer wider explanations. Some argue that the nouveau roman stifled the French novel, undermining the value of narrative. Others that literary leanness mirrors the stale political culture that is prevalent in a country where Jacques Chirac has been in politics for nearly 40 years.

What stir is caused by other writers, besides Mr Houellebecq, is thin. Philippe Claudel has just published the short but poignant “La Petite Fille de Monsieur Linh”. Another, less literary, voice is that of Marc Levy, whose latest work, “Vous Revoir”, returns to the characters of his earlier romantic comedy, “Et Si C'était Vrai”, due out soon as a Hollywood film. Another still is Frédéric Beigbeder, who has followed up his moving “Windows on the World” with the less assured “L'Egoiste Romantique”.

Controversy continues to dog Mr Houellebecq. Should he win the Goncourt, France's top literary prize, for which his book has just been shortlisted, the cronyism charges will re-surface. Some critics have already denounced Fayard for releasing the novel early only to a select few. Such indignation eclipses a far more interesting debate about the merits of the work itself—and of modern French fiction.