the beginning didn't get my hopes up (nor did the horrific neon cover of the book, actually), but my attitude proceeded to metamorphosize throughout the course of the novel and completely changed by the end (which in itself was a bit curious, but i won't get into that-- all great books have weird endings, no?)-- i quite liked it. the tone is great-- i laughed (more like chuckled or snickered), my face lapsed into seriousness, i muttered some words to myself... pardon the impending psychobabble, but i felt an affinity for the narrator despite his frequent comments about being unable to identify with other people; he's "separate"/aloof and yet painfully sensitive-- which latter quality of course makes him vulnerable and approachable. the book is wry, dry, intelligently and adroitly offhand, piercing, sarcastic, and even ugly at times, yet it simultaneously possesses a fascinating sense/message of persistent hope (and a comment upon man's peculiarly tenacious nature when it comes to hope). overall, i would say it reminded me of a cross between sartre's _nausea_ and salinger's _catcher in the rye_. well-orchestrated (except for the very beginning...), a great job-- i'd love to read more of houellebecq's work.