Sorry, the review will be long because the novel is profound and offers a lot to think about.
When my students pout that I “hurt their feelings” or “made them feel stupid” by correcting their Spanish grammar in class or in their papers, they exhibit the typical consumerist philosophy of life. A consumer believes that if s/he paid for education (with money or the fact of enrollment), this purchase, just like any other object of consumption, should bring nothing but uniform, unbroken pleasure. When a purchase results in anything other than pleasure, consumers revolt.
Consumers bring the same approach to interpersonal relationships. It’s impossible to create a profound, meaningful bond with another human being without exposing oneself to a certain amount of unpleasantness, conflict, incomprehension, compromise, anger, pain, etc. Profound relationships can’t be built with objects, only with human beings whose full humanity you are willing to accept and accommodate.
Consumers, however, can’t tolerate compromise or conflict with their purchases. They flit from one lover, friend, boss, co-worker, etc. to another in search of a uniformly pleasing, ego-stroking relationship. All they manage to encounter is a series of superficial, disappointing contacts that never manage to provide them with the Hallmark tableau of endless bliss that they seek.
François, the protagonist of Michel Houellebecq’s best-selling novel Submission is precisely this kind of pouty consumer. At the age of 44, he feels useless, lonely and sad because all he has in his life is a long procession of indifferent, uncaring lovers with whom he fails to establish any sort of a fulfilling bond.
Like a typical consumer, François never conceives of the possibility that the reason for his loneliness might lie inside himself. If the goods – that is, women in his life – fail to satisfy, there must be a design flaw in the goods. François decides that the reason why women can’t provide him with a family, love, a strong emotional bond, great sex and wonderful cooking is that. . . they work and working exhausts them so much that they have no energy left to fulfill all these functions.
François is not an idiot. He is a university professor and a very well-read man. However, he is so overpowered by consumerism that he fails to observe how bizarre his explanations of his own unhappiness are. For instance, François argues that the only truly sexual women are those who live in Saudi Arabia because they really don’t have to work and can save all their energy for sex.
When life doesn’t work out the way commercials promise it should, consumers begin to look for a “happy pill” that they can buy to make themselves feel better. François searches for his “happy pill” everywhere he can: at a Catholic convent, in the apartments of prostitutes he hires, at the house of his polygamous Muslim colleague, in an endless succession of restaurants and bars, etc.
The real tragedy of the novel is not that the pill which François buys is called “Islam” (as opposed to “Christianity”, “nation-state”, “humanism” or “pink elephants with blue spots”), as many of this book’s reviewers suggested, but that his incapacity to awaken from the consumerist slumber of reason prevents François from abandoning the search for a “happy pill” altogether.


