The Possibility of an Island by Michel Houellebecq, Gavin Bowd Page A

that had punctuated his speech stopped and was replaced by a brief and poignant documentary devoted to the mental—and sometimes unbearable—sufferings of Vietnam veterans. They couldn’t forget, had nightmares every night, could no longer even drive or cross the street without assistance, they lived constantly in fear and it seemed impossible for them to readapt to a normal social life. It focused then on the case of a stooped, wrinkled man who had only a thin crown of disheveled red hair and who seemed to be truly reduced to a wreck: he trembled constantly, could no longer leave his house, and was in need of permanent medical assistance; and he suffered, suffered without end. In the cupboard of his dining room he kept a little jar, filled with soil from Vietnam; every time he opened the cupboard and took out the jar, he broke down in tears.
    “Stop,” said Knowall. “Stop.” The image froze on the close-up of the old man in tears. “Stupidity,” continued Knowall. “Complete and utter stupidity. The first thing this man should do is take his bottle of Vietnamese soil and throw it out of the window. Every time he opens the cupboard, every time he takes out the bottle—and sometimes he does it up to fifty times a day—he reinforces the neuro-circuit, and condemns himself to suffer a little more. Similarly, every time that we dwell on the past, that we return to a painful episode—and this is more or less what psychoanalysis boils down to—we increase the chances of reproducing it. Instead of advancing, we bury ourselves. Whenever we experience sadness, disappointment, something that prevents us from living, we must start by moving out, burning photos, avoiding talking to anyone about it. Repressed memories disappear; this can take some time, but they disappear in the end. The circuit deactivates itself.
    “Any questions?” No, there were no questions. His presentation, which had lasted more than two hours, had been remarkably clear. As I went into the dining hall I saw Patrick coming toward me, all smiles, stretching out his hand. Had I had a good journey, was I settled in, etc.? While we conversed pleasantly, a woman embraced me from behind, rubbing her pubis against my backside, placing her hands on my belly. I turned around: Fadiah had taken off her white tunic and put on a sort of vinyl leopard-patterned bodysuit; she looked in rude health. While continuing to rub her pubis against me she too asked me about my first impressions. Patrick regarded the scene good-naturedly. “Oh, she does this with everyone…,” he told me as we made for a table where a man of about fifty, strongly built, with thick gray hair in a crew cut, was already sitting. He stood up to greet me and shook my hand, observing me closely. During the meal, he didn’t say much, contenting himself from time to time with adding a point of detail on the logistics of the course, but I could sense that he was studying me. He was called Jérôme Prieur, but immediately I baptized him Cop. He was in fact the right-hand man of the prophet, the Number 2 of the organization (although they used a different phrase, and had a whole load of titles along the lines of “archbishop of the seventh rank,” but that was what they really meant). You progressed according to seniority and merit, as in all organizations, he told me without smiling; according to seniority and merit. Knowall, for example, although he had only been an Elohimite for five years, was Number 3. As for Number 4, I absolutely had to be introduced to him, insisted Patrick, he really appreciated what I did, he himself had a great sense of humor. “Oh, humor…,” I stopped myself from replying.
     
     
    The afternoon lecture was given by Odile, a woman of around fifty who had had the same kind of sex life as Catherine Millet, and who incidentally looked a bit like her. She seemed a sympathetic woman, without problems—again like Catherine Millet—but her presentation was a bit