Platform by Michel Houellebecq Page A

you should read, the causes you should campaign for, new topics of conversation . . . The readers couldn't possibly wear the same clothes as the models, and why on earth would they be interested in new trends? They're mostly older women."
    "You think so?" "I'm sure of it. My mother reads it."
    "Maybe the writers simply write about the things they're interested in, not what interests their readers."
    "Economically, that shouldn't be viable. Normally things are done to satisfy the customer's tastes."
    "Maybe it does satisfy the customer's tastes."
    She pondered. "Maybe," she replied hesitantly.
    "You think when you're sixty you won't be interested in new trends anymore?" I insisted.
    "I certainly hope not," she said sincerely.
    I lit a cigarette. "If I'm going to stay, I'll have to put on sunscreen," I said in a melancholy voice.
    "We're going for a swim! You can put on sunscreen after." In a flash she was on her feet and pulling me toward the shore.
    She was a good swimmer. Personally, I can't say that I know how to swim. I can float on my back for a bit, but I get tired quickly. "You get tired too fast," she said. "It's because you smoke too much. You should play some sports. I'm going to sort you out." She twisted my bicep. Oh no, I thought, no. She eventually calmed clown and went back to sunning herself after she'd vigorously dried her hair. She was pretty like that, with her long black hair all tousled. She didn't take off her top, which was a pity; I would have really liked her to take off her top. I would have liked to see her breasts, here, now.
    She caught me looking at her breasts and smiled quickly. "Michel,'' she said after a moment's silence. I flinched at the use of my first name. "Why do you feel so old?" she asked, looking me straight in the eyes.
    It was a good question; I choked a little.
    "You don't have to answer right away," she said gently. "I've got a book for you," she went on, taking it from her bag. I was surprised to recognize the yellow cover of the "Masque" series, and a title by Agatha Christie, The Hollow .
    "Agatha Christie?" I said, bewildered.
    "Read it anyway. I think you'll find it interesting."
    I nodded like an idiot. "Are you not coming to lunch?" she asked after a moment. "It's one o'clock already."
    "No . . . No, I don't think so."
    "You don't much like being in a group?" There was no point in answering, so I smiled. We picked up our things and left together. On the way, we met Lionel, who was wandering around like a lost soul. He gave us a friendly wave, but already it seemed as if he wasn't having so much fun. It isn't for nothing that single men are so rare at resorts. You'll find them, nervous, on the periphery of the recreational activities. Most often, they turn and leave. Sometimes they launch into them, and participate. I left Valérie in front of the restaurant tables.
    In every Sherlock Holmes story you immediately recognize a number of basic characteristics of the hero. However, each story also never fails to introduce some new peculiarity (the cocaine, the violin, the existence of his older brother, Mycroft, the taste for Italian opera, certain services rendered long ago to the crowned heads of Europe, the first case Sherlock Holmes ever solved when he was still an adolescent). Each new detail that is revealed casts new areas of shadow, creating a truly fascinating character. Thus, Conan Doyle succeeded in creating a perfect mixture of the pleasure of discovery and the pleasure of recognition . I always felt that Agatha Christie, on the other hand, placed too much emphasis on the pleasure of recognition. In her initial descriptions of Poirot, she has a tendency to limit herself to a couple of stock phrases, restricting description to her character's most obvious traits (his mania for symmetry, his patent-leather boots, the care he lavishes on his mustaches). In the more mediocre books, you get the impression that the phrases have been copied directly from