Bookmarker is a personal project by @dellsystem to help with retaining reading material. Source on GitHub.

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2 years, 11 months ago

I had spent my life working endlessly

Basically I had worked hard, I told myself, I had spent my life working endlessly. The actors I knew at the age of twenty had had no success, it’s true, most had even completely given up the trade, but it must also be said that they had done fuck-all, they had spent their time drinking in bars or t…

—p.80 The Possibility of an Island by Michel Houellebecq
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2 years, 11 months ago

the highways are an almost exclusively male universe

It was only after Isabelle left that I truly discovered the world of men, in the course of pathetic wanderings along the virtually deserted highways of central and southern Spain. Except for the weekends and the start of the holidays, when you encounter families and couples, the highways are an a…

—p.73 by Michel Houellebecq
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2 years, 11 months ago

we had seventeen bedrooms

On the practical level, there was no immediate problem: we had seventeen bedrooms. I moved into one of those overlooking the cliffs and the sea; Isabelle, apparently, preferred to contemplate inland. Fox went from room to room, it amused him a lot; he suffered no more from it than a child from the …

—p.66 by Michel Houellebecq
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2 years, 11 months ago

scenes unworthy of a modern country

This figure was the result of a long evolution, scarcely begun at the time of Daniel1, when the average age at death was much higher, and suicide by old people was still infrequent. The now-ugly, deteriorated bodies of the elderly were, however, already the object of unanimous disgust, and it was u…

—p.62 by Michel Houellebecq
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2 years, 11 months ago

Shakespeare himself

Its failure with the critics, on the other hand, was real; to this day I still think it was undeserved. “An undistinguished knockabout farce,” was the headline in Le Monde, differentiating itself from its more moralistic peers, who raised, especially in their editorials, the question of banning it.…

—p.60 by Michel Houellebecq