Platform by Michel Houellebecq, then. Yawn.
Michel (With His Annoying Autobiographical Implication), Valerie and Jean-Yves meet on holiday… Michel and Valerie have lots of sex… it’s all described very tediously and unerotically… they sometimes have sex with other people too… more description… I would rather eat my own arm than go near either of them… the three decide to expand their tourism business to include sex tourism in Thailand… or something… numerous pages are devoted to describing the tourism trade in France and Thailand… or something… they do so… I think… they all die or some of them die or one of them dies… I’m not really sure because I spent the last half of the book falling as l e e ppppppppppppp. The end… at last.
I don’t care about Houellebecq’s window to society and his conclusions on its nihilism and frustration – the man is dull. Not only that, but his characters are so uninteresting and impossible to like, one couldn’t care less what happens to them. I certainly didn’t. I should have remembered all this from Atomised, frankly, so I only have myself to blame. No more Houellebecq for me ever. I suggest you follow this advice, too.