Vincent fixed the prophet with an incredibly attantive look as his mood swung between discouragement and unconcern, between the tropism of death and the convulsions of life: he looked more and more like a tired old monkey. (190)

In despair, I opted for a hot chocolate: the prophet tolerated cocoa, on condition that it was greatly reduced in fat - probably in homage to Nietzsche, whose ideas he admired. (191)

It's true that I could say anything and the media would always be there to record my words, but to go from there to a point when people would listen to me, and change their point of view, was a rather giant leap: everyone had become used to celebrities expressing themselves in the media on the most varied subjects, saying things that were generally predictable, and no one paid them any real attention any more, basically the system of the spectacle, obliged to produce a disgusting concensus, had long since collapsed under the weight of its own meaninglessness. (194)

Closing the brackets on becoming, we are from now on in unlimited, indefinite stasis. (303) -- Houellebecq, as below. My review here.