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Jump to navigation Jump to search. Language Label Description Also known as; English: Learn more in the Cambridge French-English Dictionary.
La soumission du titre nous guette tous lorsqu'on ne se raconte pas de blagues lorsque des choix politiques et moraux menacent notre confort. Read more.
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With Reverso you can find the French translation, definition or synonym for soumission and thousands of other words. You can complete the translation of soumission given by the French Definition dictionary with other dictionaries such as: Summary and reviews of Submission by Michel Houellebecq, plus links to a book excerpt from Submission and author biography of Michel Houellebecq.
Our office will be closed starting at 2: Our office will return to normal business hours on Tuesday, May 28th, Translation for 'faire une soumission' in the free French-English dictionary and many other English translations.
Submission is a typical Houellebecq novel, for better and worse. With its sad-sack protagonist, condemnation of and yet also wallow in contemporary Western society at its most decadent, and largely despairing worldview, it offers all the usual Houellebecq-pleasures, quite nicely served up. As Andre Breton pointed out, Huysmans' sense of humour is uniquely generous.
He lets the reader stay one step ahead of him, inviting us to laugh at him, and his overly plaintive, awful or ludicrous descriptions, even before he laughs at himself. No one appreciated that generosity more than I did, as I received my rations of celeriac remoulade and salt cod, each in its little compartment of the metal hospital tray issued by the Bullier student cafeteria whose unfortunate patrons clearly had nowhere else to go, and had obviously been kicked out of all the acceptable student cafeterias, but who still had their student IDs - you couldn't take away their student IDs , and I thought of Huysmans' epithets - the woebegone cheese, the grievous sole - and imagined what he might make of those metal cells, which he'd never known, and I felt a little less unhappy, a little less alone, in the Bullier student cafeteria.
But that was all over now. My entire youth was over.
Soon very soon , I would have to see about entering the workforce. The prospect left me cold.
The academic study of literature leads basically nowhere, as we all know, unless you happen to be an especially gifted student, in which case it prepares you for a career teaching the academic study of literature - it is, in other words, a rather farcical system that exists solely to replicate itself and yet manages to fail more than 95 per cent of the time. Still, it's harmless, and can even have a certain marginal value. A young woman applying for a sales job at Celine or Hermes should naturally attend to her appearance above all; but a degree in literature can constitute a secondary asset, since it guarantees the employer, in the absence of any useful skills, a certain intellectual agility that could lead to professional development - besides which, literature has always carried positive connotations in the world of luxury goods.
For my part, I knew I was one of those 'gifted' few. I'd written a good dissertation and I expected an honourable mention. All the same, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a special commendation, and even more surprised when I saw the committee's report, which was excellent, practically dithyrambic.
Suddenly a tenured position as a senior lecturer was within my reach, if I wanted it.
Which meant that my boring, predictable life continued to resemble Huysmans' a century and a half before. I had begun my adult life at a university and would probably end it the same way, maybe even at the same one though in fact this wasn't quite the case: I had taken my degree at the University of Paris IV-Sorbonne and was appointed by Paris III, slightly less prestigious but also in the Fifth Arrondissement, just around the corner.
I'd never felt the slightest vocation for teaching - and my fifteen years as a teacher had only confirmed that initial lack of calling. What little private tutoring I'd done, to raise my standard of living, soon convinced me that the transmission of knowledge was generally impossible, the variance of intelligence extreme, and that nothing could undo or even mitigate this basic inequality.
Worse, maybe, I didn't like young people and never had, even when I might have been numbered among them. Being young implied, it seemed to me, a certain enthusiasm for life, or else a certain defiance, accompanied in either case by a vague sense of superiority towards the generation that one had been called on to replace. I'd never had those sorts of feelings. I did have some friends when I was young - or, more precisely, there were other students with whom I could contemplate having coffee or a beer between classes and not feel disgust.
Mostly I had mistresses - or rather, as people said then and maybe still do , I had girlfriends, roughly one a year.
These relationships followed a fairly regular pattern. They would start at the beginning of the academic year, with a seminar, an exchange of class notes, or what have you, one of the many social occasions, so common in student life, that disappear when we enter the workforce, plunging most of us into a stupefying and radical solitude.
The relationship would take its course as the year went by. Nights were spent at one person's place or the other's in fact, I'd usually stay at theirs, since the grim, not to say insalubrious, atmosphere at mine hardly lent itself to romantic interludes ; sexual acts took place to what I like to think was our mutual satisfaction.
When we came back from the summer holiday and the academic year began again, the relationship would end, almost always at the girl's initiative. Things had changed over the summer.