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A review by krismichaud
En présence de Schopenhauer by Michel Houellebecq
challenging
funny
informative
reflective
slow-paced
3.0
Schopenhauer seems to pop up all the time as a reference point for my favorite artists and writers.
I love Schopenhauer,and I love Houellebecq. It came as little surprise to me when I learned that Houellebecq admired Schopenhauer, too. Both are possessed of that rare combination of compassion and a pessimism that can be mistaken for misanthropy.
This is an interesting book, unusual in its format. Houellebecq translates several, sometime quite lengthy, passages from Schopenhauer’s philosophical works, and then provides commentary on each. I can’t say that it changed my own interpretation of the great philosopher, but it felt like a nice warm bath in familiar waters; like reading one more essay on Lou Reed by Brian Eno.
I think I prefer Houellebecq’s appreciation of H.P. Lovecraft, “Against the World, Against Life,”which takes the form of an extended essay, with fewer direct quotes. That book seemed more passionate, and less interpretive or analytical. It also seemed like the French author-critic’s attention was necessary to elevate the American pulp author to capital-L literature, like Baudelaire had done for Poe, and Truffaut had done for Hitchcock in the realm of cinema. That’s not really necessary here.
I will probably come back to this one after reading (and hopefully absorbing) Schopenhauer’s complete works. It seems like its value would increase in direct proportion to one’s familiarity with Schopenhauerian metaphysics.
I love Schopenhauer,and I love Houellebecq. It came as little surprise to me when I learned that Houellebecq admired Schopenhauer, too. Both are possessed of that rare combination of compassion and a pessimism that can be mistaken for misanthropy.
This is an interesting book, unusual in its format. Houellebecq translates several, sometime quite lengthy, passages from Schopenhauer’s philosophical works, and then provides commentary on each. I can’t say that it changed my own interpretation of the great philosopher, but it felt like a nice warm bath in familiar waters; like reading one more essay on Lou Reed by Brian Eno.
I think I prefer Houellebecq’s appreciation of H.P. Lovecraft, “Against the World, Against Life,”which takes the form of an extended essay, with fewer direct quotes. That book seemed more passionate, and less interpretive or analytical. It also seemed like the French author-critic’s attention was necessary to elevate the American pulp author to capital-L literature, like Baudelaire had done for Poe, and Truffaut had done for Hitchcock in the realm of cinema. That’s not really necessary here.
I will probably come back to this one after reading (and hopefully absorbing) Schopenhauer’s complete works. It seems like its value would increase in direct proportion to one’s familiarity with Schopenhauerian metaphysics.