First surprise upon reading Public Enemies, the joint work of MichelHouellebecq and Bernard-Henri Lévy: it's a good tandem.This is not the poet and the ideologue, but the voices of two writers,equal in strength. Obviously, of different genres: Houellebecq, asgay as a cello, with his habitual tone, neat, precise, perhaps a bitless ironic and paradoxical than usual. Bernard-Henri Lévy soundshigh and mighty, his speech cadenced and emphatic. These are thedrums of the tribune, the panache, even when he dares to share what isconfidential.
This correspondence reveals a vanity one would not have thought soirreversible. They really perceive themselves, one and the other,like public enemies. They are sure they are "the principle whippingboys of our era in France" (Houellebecq). "Why so much hatred?" (BHL).And refer, outright, to shades of Baudelaire or, without cracking asmile, "the case of Sartre, loathed by his contemporaries".
Yet one cannot say our two accursed authors are lacking places wherethey can express themselves, material means to work, and editorialsupport.
Accursed, really? The author of Who Killed Daniel Pearl? and the onewho penned Elementary Particles? From time to time, they have a surgeof lucidity in this regard. BHL has the honesty to write, "We haveour areas of foolishness, of course--beginning with the temptation ofparanoia, lurking there for both of us, for example, in thiscorrespondence...." Houellebecq's bitterness goes deeper. "People saywhat, now that you're famous and you're loaded, what are youcomplaining about?" he writes. "[...] In general, you have to put abullet through your brain before anyone begins to understand you weretalking seriously."
It is true that Houellebecq has a mother. Through her, "[he]isobviously the one they're trying to destroy," says the poor boy. Hehas seen her "just a few times" in his life, "fifteen at the most".Suddenly appearing in the papers, two years ago, thanks to a book,Lucie Ceccaldi (that's her name) produced a torrent of appallingdeclarations. She has joined the ranks of the "rotten mothers ofhistory and literature", writes BHL, horrified and sympathetic. Hehimself was the cherished son of parents who were complicated butloving. Especially the father, a rich industrialist who had knownpoverty, unconditional supporter of his brilliant kid. He evenproduced his film, Day and Night, as resounding a flop as ThePossibility of an Island, directed by Houellebecq. One of the thingsthey have in common. Their childhood inequality remains, even in theircelebrity.
Houellebecq combines the will to please and to annoy; ultimately, hesays, he wants to be loved. He demonstrates a certain admiration forthe "fine success" of his father, who has become an emeritus mountainguide. But his knowledge of contempt, of refusing to obey and ofrejection of indoctrination, comes from him. "Sometimes it seems tome that, as a man, all I have done is to provide an aesthetictranslation of this attitude of withdrawal I observed, as a child, inmy father."
Nonetheless, the young Houellebecq tells how, travelling across Francein the jeep with his father, he was always afraid he might beabandoned at the side of the road.
Without delving into psychology, one is obliged to recognize thedepressive tendencies of one and the splendid warrior's will of theother. Bernard-Henri Lévy does not possess the mediocrity of thevengeful; he listens to manifestations of hostility in order tocounter them, the better to forget them. It's a strategy. He likesbattlefields. With one contradiction: he does not see himself as avictim. He is one of those who protects, who feels responsible forhis human brothers, to the point of acknowledging the taste foradventure that draws him to noble causes. He must "enter Sarajevobefore everyone else". But he admits to the fear, bordering oncertainty, that one day he will be the prey of a fatal injustice.
Houellebecq is not possessed of this combative nature, nor of a joy inwinning. His attacks aim low--this or that journalist is "a sillybitch", Telerama is a rag, Pierre Assouline is "a tapeworm".Bernard-Henri Lévy, who prefers to ramble on about "the pack", doesnot let this pass. "Careful when you use 'tapeworm,' dear Michel.It's the word Celine used to refer to Sartre in l'Agité du bocal."Regarding Céline, we can count on Houellebecq to take up his old habitof provocation.
His "return" to a happy Jewishness without religion, the Bible,Genesis, Lucretius, the Epicurians, Althusser, Foucault--BHL's lessonin philosophy is bracing. He believes in free will and attempts tolose his penchant for egotistical problems, "this double dread ofbeing nothing and of being only oneself". Houellebecq doesn't findhimself any more interesting than his dog. He is not a politicallycommitted intellectual. "Human rights, human dignity, thefoundations of politics, I let all that go, I have no theoreticalammunition, nothing that may allow me to confirm such demands asvalid."
Not only does the duo work, alternating everyday considerations andmetaphysical ones, but it succeeds in producing a fascinating book,and this will be the second surprise for the reader, whether friend orenemy. It was up to Houellebecq, a tactician in disguise, to haveknown how to lure his interlocutor on to the terrain of "confessions"and of a vulnerability that is sometimes unconscious. Careful, doubtis not his forté, self-criticism even less. Bernard-Henri Lévy has noqualms about neutralizing his eventual detractors, with threats, ifnecessary.
Can one escape the trap of fame? Michel Houellebecq, who citesPhilippe Sollers as an example, seems to wish to do so. It's goodnews.