Michel Houellebecq’s novel Submission has caused quite a stir since its release early in 2015. The debate-enthusiastic French threw themselves into the fire of pros and cons while Mr H kept on basking in the publicity he seems to enjoy so much. The saga of a Muslim (political) take over in France in the near future as a result of general liberalisation and misdirected altruism certainly feels like a “hot” topic these days. And could certainly have been fodder for many kinds of brighter fires from all facets of the spectrum. But alas…
Submission is possibly the dullest and most boring book I’ve ever read. Its protagonist, a middle aged university teacher whose increasing pangs of existential Angst get meshed with the new Islamic Republic’s petro-dollar infusion into the intellectual sphere, confusedly becomes a victim both of his own weakness and the new masters’ strengths. As such, this plot set up could have been filled with great potential. But Mr H drags everything down to the most mundane and dismal levels, complete with explicit descriptions of sexual encounters with prostitutes, lucullic sedation (the French are good at that) and religious “doubts” and “speculations”. If the aim has been to portray a weak French intellectual in the dullest possible way, Houellebecq has certainly succeeded.
Its main dilemma seems to be that between personal comfort and moral principle. Everyone the protagonist meets succumbs immediately and strategically to Islam, so our little intellectual (a specialist on KJ Huysmans and his eventual harbour in good old-fashioned Catholicism) finds it best to do the same. In that sense Mr H had the best possible set up for really delving into dilemmas and delusions on a deep and truly provocative level. But for some reason he seems to prefer the mere level of light-weight entertainment rather than that of literature.
The problem here is not one of intention but of execution. If the book was meant to be a provocation, obviously it has succeeded. But I suspect that has more to do with the base and frightened level of the receivers rather than the audacity of the sender, so to speak.
One could argue that the dull prose “reflects” the dull antihero’s life. One could argue that the mechanical displays of sensuality (so called) in a similar way reflects a materialistic Weltanschauung gone overboard. One could argue that the infusion of a bit of Huysmans mirrors our similarly torn academic’s (and, no doubt, Mr H’s own) longing for a spiritual/religious comfort zone. But all of this potentially great stuff leads to nothing. Submission is truly a submission of a vital reader to a second rate author’s pallid attempt to provoke the already faint-at-heart. Those who are genuinely provoked by this book in any way will surely be the first ones to convert to Islam.
