Read Online Platform by Michel Houellebecq - Free Book Online

alongside the River Kwai. I'd never really got to the bottom of this River Kwai story, so I tried to pay attention to what the guide was saying. Luckily René, Michelin Guide in hand, was following the story, always ready to correct this point or that. In short, after they entered the war in 1941, the Japanese decided to build a railway connecting Singapore and Burma, with the long-term objective of invading India. This railway had to cross Malaysia and Thailand, Come to think of it, what were the Thais doing during the Second World War? Well, now you come to mention it, not a lot. They were "neutral," Sôn informed me diplomatically. In reality, René explained, they'd signed a military pact with the Japanese without actually declaring war on the Allies. That was the way of wisdom, a way that demonstrated, once again, the celebrated "subtlety of mind" that had made it possible for the Thais to spend two centuries caught in a viselike grip between the colonial powers of France and England without actually surrendering to either, and to remain the only country in Southeast Asia never to have actually been colonized.
    Be that as it may, by 1942 work had begun on the section along the River Kwai, marshaling sixty thousand English, Australian, New Zealand, and American prisoners of war, as well as "countless" Asian forced laborers. In October 1943, the railway was completed, but sixteen thousand POWs had died from a variety of causes, including lack of food, the hostile climate, and the innate viciousness of the Japanese. Shortly afterwards, an Allied bombing raid destroyed the bridge over the River Kwai, a crucial element of the infrastructure —thereby rendering the railway completely useless. In short, a lot of people copped it for very little. Things have changed little since then —it is still impossible to get a decent rail connection between Singapore and Delhi.
    So it was in a state of mild annoyance that I began the visit to the JEATH Museum, built to commemorate the appalling suffering of the Allied POWs. Certainly, I thought, what had happened was thoroughly regrettable; but, let's face it, worse things happened during the Second World War. I couldn't help thinking that if the prisoners had been Polish or Russian there would have been a lot less fuss.
    A little later, we were required to endure a visit to the cemetery for the self-same Allied prisoners of war —those who had, in a manner of speaking, made the ultimate sacrifice. There were white crosses in neat rows, all exactly identical; the place radiated a profound monotony. It reminded me of Omaha Beach, which hadn't really moved me either, had actually reminded me, in fact, of a modern art installation. "In this place," I said to myself, with a feeling of sadness that I felt was somewhat inadequate, "in this place, a bunch of morons died for the sake of democracy." That said, the cemetery at the River Kwai was much smaller. You could almost count the graves, though I gave up pretty quickly. "There can't be sixteen thousand graves ...." I concluded aloud. "You're quite right," René informed me, still armed with his Michelin Guide . "The number of dead is estimated at sixteen thousand, but the cemetery contains only five hundred and eighty-two graves. They are considered to be" (he read, running his finger under the words) "the 'five hundred and eighty-two martyrs to democracy .' "
    When I got my third gold-star merit badge at the age often, I went to a pâtisserie to stuff my face with crêpes au Grand Marnier. It was a private party, as I had no friends with whom I could share my joy. I was staying with my father in Chamonix, as I did every year at that time. He was an alpine guide and a committed mountaineer. His friends were like him, courageous, virile men —I never felt comfortable around them. I've never really felt comfortable around men. I was eleven the first time a girl ever showed me her pussy; I was immediately filled with wonder. I adored this