In "an intense campaign of secrecy," reports the Observer, French publisher Fayard only sent out 15 review copies of Michel Houellebecq's new novel, La Possibilité d'Une Île, and those only to reviewers who might be expected to like it. (This is also described as "an unprecedented attempt to secure good reviews," which makes me wonder what the reporter thinks French book publicists normally do with their time.)

The rest of the book reviewers in Paris are amusing themselves by passing around copies of a CD Houellebecq recorded with Bertrand Burgalat, a European recording impresario a handful of Americans might recognize for his work with Nick Cave and Air, on which "the best-selling writer self-consciously recites his poetry against a kitsch psychedelic soundtrack." It remains unclear whether the critics are sniggering because the album's really that bad or they just hate Houellebecq for being commercial.