Abstract
The fall of 2005 was an unjoyous time in Paris. In the popular press, article after article spoke darkly of a sour mood that had settled over the French, attributed variously to a sluggish economy, faltering confidence in the future of the European Union, sheer boredom, or a vague sense that France's best days lie behind her. Not surprisingly, the latest Michel Houellebecq novel was being touted as the book of the season, and even as the one (gloomy) bright spot in what promised to be a drab literary rentree. Actual events, meanwhile, demonstrated the existence of real suffering in the midst of all this moping: first a series of deadly fires in apartment buildings occupied primarily by African immigrants, then a sudden and protracted eruption of rage from the marginalized communities of the suburbs (no doubt paving the way for yet another resurgence of the xenophobic far right). In short, a field day for prophets of doom of all stripes; for everyone else, there seemed remarkably little reason to be cheerful.
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