This article is based on this Dutch article of Martijn Benders
The donut—a French invention co-opted by American police officers. At least, that’s the story we’ve all heard. Determined to get the facts straight, I did some checking. It turns out the donut has a convoluted history, with the Dutch taking precedence over the French. The oliebol, or oil ball, is the true precursor to the donut. Dutch colonists took their “olykoeks” to America, where they often remained raw and uncooked in the middle. One American decided to cut out the uncooked center, and thus, the donut was born thanks to Hanson Gregory in 1847—seven years after Napoleon’s corpse made its grim journey through the Arc de Triomphe.
So, the French had nothing to do with it. The claim that they were responsible for this greasy treat is based on the beignet, a square piece of dough fried in oil and sprinkled with powdered sugar. The French tried loudly to claim the invention of the donut based on that cubist monstrosity, but it’s as unbelievable as their croissant story. Those fat police officers owe their girth to the Dutch oliebol, not to any French confection.
Which brings us to a curious point: those swollen officers, the rotund sheriffs with their concealed glasses, fattened on Dutch oil. Think of the elongated Marlboro commercials in Houellebecq’s work, specifically Serotonine (the first book of his I’ve read, because I always took Schopenhauer seriously; modern books cause brain damage). Serotonine is a blatant farce with a bureaucrat as the protagonist, who is obviously the writer himself; he even has the same girlfriend as the real author. When you think of the French and farce as an art form, Louis de Funès immediately comes to mind. His immense influence drips from every page of Serotonine.
What can be said about Houellebecq’s style? He’s not an intellectual, more like a French Brusselmans mixed with a bit of Tarantino, with an awkward desire to appear ‘punk rock’ in a book that should be about serotonin. The joke is that the bureaucrat, with his endless macho ramblings about sex, isn’t very sexual at all, and this is presented as societal critique: my destructive macho mumbling, my punk rock bureaucrat, a brilliant summary of authorship itself: I chose the thrill because society is boring, and this farce is the best literature can achieve.
But it lacks the finesse of good timing. Louis de Funès was the king of timing, a title this nihilistic copycat doesn’t deserve. 2018 is far too late to publish a book about antidepressants, and almost every interesting angle regarding those pills is missed. The same goes for many of the so-called witticisms that splatter off every page like cheap frying oil: here, an oliebol is being fried, or perhaps a quirky beignet, but the decline of the bureaucrat-writer coated in crushed tablets—it’s a farce, but not a self-aware one like Hermans.
The man has no sense of humor, as shown by his multiple lawsuits against Kirac to ban the porn film in which he eagerly participated. First, you call the Dutch a porn-loving nation in Serotonine, then you agree to make that porn, but be a man and admit that the result of those efforts should be seen by the public. I’m not part of it, as I find the book pornographic enough, and not the good kind. It’s like those late-night German RTL shows from the past. The real sex is missing; it’s just the spectacle of sex, the rumor of it. And it’s no self-parody, just as a donut isn’t a self-censoring oliebol. This punk rock bureaucrat is genuinely pathetic, but that’s not a good thing.
Where is the real French literature? Houellebecq epitomizes Americanization at its peak; this is no Gauloises commercial, far from it. Gauloises, that’s real French—a cigarette too strong for the average smoker. That’s why we, the artists, smoked it: to prove we weren’t ‘bourgeois,’ even though we coughed our way through the streets. Gauloises advertised with intellectual allure: Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus were bribed to smoke Gauloises in public. Gauloises tried to continue this with Houellebecq, but the timing was off. When sponsoring Camus and Sartre, Gauloises was upfront, but with Houellebecq, the sponsorship was hidden. His work resembled an extensive Marlboro commercial, and conspiracy theories mushroomed.
Houellebecq’s support extends beyond the cigarette industry to other controversial industries. He justifies the atrocities in Gaza, which doesn’t surprise me, but his claim that ‘true leftists’ wouldn’t support Gaza holds no water for me. How ghastly.
No, I’d rather discuss another conspiracy: why have we fattened the US police force on Dutch oil? Why is there a genocidal factory on this planet full of bloated bureaucrats who would tase their own mothers if they dared to oppose racism? And why do Schoof and Rutte head straight to Washington post-election? Rutte took the opportunity to visit the Coca-Cola headquarters as well.
The drink once contained real cocaine, before scientists found ways to use hormones to entice consumer loyalty with their sugary concoction. Kirac should think about customer loyalty too, because such a horror film with Houellebecq is simply too perverse an idea: I dare not watch it. His books already do enough damage: think of the sensitive souls who can’t survive your artistic stunts.
Martinus, 18-07-2024
