Martin Amis once made the observation that literary interviews never really tell you what a writer is like. Rather, they tell you what a writer is like to interview. Almost all of the interviews I’d read in preparation for my own face to face encounter with Michel Houellebecq, by far the most successful contemporary French novelist (as well as the most reviled), told varying degrees of the same journalistic horreur story.

The man was apparently a nightmare interviewee – the literary Roky Erickson. He sometimes said nothing at all for long stretches of time, he chain-smoked constantly, drank himself to unconsciousness, and made ill-considered passes at female journalists. As likely to walk out as pass out, he wasn’t just difficult, it seemed, but très, très difficult.

Thankfully, when I meet him in the lobby of the Shelbourne Hotel, the 44-year-old Frenchman appears to be in good form. OK, it’s not the friendliest greeting ever, but I was expecting worse. His handshake is firm, his eyes are deep and challenging, there’s a ghost of a smile playing around his lips, and his general demeanour is polite, if a touch stand-offish. There’s something not quite right about him, but that’s long been well acknowledged.

The product of a fiercely unhappy childhood, Houellebecq has spent several spells in mental hospitals over the years. As his friend, the novelist Frederic Beigbeder put it, “Perhaps he should be dead. If I had a childhood like him, I would have killed myself. He is a zombie back from the dead and telling us what it is like.”

Today though, he’s as happy as he gets. “He’s in quite a good mood today,” his publicist confides, as photographer Mick Quinn leads him off to be photographed. “A few journalists annoyed him this morning by asking him what he was going to do with the money, but otherwise he’s been fine.”

The money she’s talking about is the £100,000 cheque he picked up two nights previously as the seventh winner of the annual International Impac Dublin Literary Award (to be shared with the book’s translator – Sligo-born Frank Wynne).

He won the prestigious prize for his second novel Atomised, a highly subversive satire about sexuality, relationships, society and the human race in general. It was a controversial decision, with one of the judges, British writer Michael Holroyd, commenting afterwards, “There will be those who will be disturbed and agitated; there will be some who will be shocked.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. ‘Disturbed’, ‘agitated’ and ‘shocked’ pretty much sums up the average response to this writer’s work. Already a respected poet, his first novel Extension du Domaine de la Lutte (Whatever) was published to much acclaim, but little controversy, in 1994.

His second, Atomised, caused a sensation when it was first published under the title Les Particules Elementaires (The Elementary Particles) in France in 1998. Echoing Huxley’s Brave New World, the novel was a pornographic parable based around the loveless lives of two misfit half-brothers – the sex obsessed Bruno and the emotionless scientist Michel. Houellebecq’s (pronounced Well-beck, incidentally) radical views on human cloning stirred a debate that will undoubtedly continue for decades and prompted French sales in excess of 300,000.

The book has since won the Prix Novembre and been translated into 25 languages. And deservedly so. As Julian Barnes put it: “Insolent and misunderstood, politically incorrect, Tournieresque in its ambition, this is a novel which hunts big game while others settle for shooting rabbit.” (Though it should be said that not everyone was as impressed as Barnes. In the words of Will Self, “He’s just a little guy who can’t get enough sex. That’s it, isn’t it?”).

His latest novel Platforme – a spirited defence of the Third World sex tourism industry – has proved the most controversial. Last September, a Fatwa of sorts was placed upon him by French Muslims, offended by the following quote from one of the novel’s central characters: “Islam could only have been born in a stupid desert among filthy Bedouins who had nothing better to do than – excuse my language – shag their camels.”

Captured by Louise Wardle’s camera for the BBC4 documentary The Trouble With Michel on the day last September when France’s leading Arabic newspaper ran the front page headline, ‘THIS MAN HATES YOU!’ over a picture of the author, Houellebecq’s only comment was as follows, “It’s OK, they say everyone has to pray for my soul, so I’m saved. I’m a bit worried about the photo, though; it’s not very . . .”

The following day, he went into hiding. A week later his wife had a nervous breakdown. Post-Rushdie, you might think that no writer would feel it was worth the grief. Then again, as Kingsley Amis once observed, there’s little point in writing if you can’t annoy somebody.

OLAF TYARANSEN: Atomised seems to suggest that the only way forward for humanity is to clone a new genetically modified, happier and more sexual species, and allow mankind in its current biological state to die out. Do you seriously believe this?

MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ: I don’t know, maybe… (long pause). Suddenly it occurred to me that biology will change everything… maybe it’s not true… I don’t know… (20 second pause) But when I wrote it, that’s what I thought.

The central character is named Michel, as are the central characters of all of your novels. Do you have much in common with the highly scientific Michel of Atomised?

Yes, I was very like him as a child. I read a lot of science books, and magazines like Tout Universe.

The book is very anti-individualism as well, which is strange coming from a writer. Surely it’s your individuality that makes you a writer?

Of course it is a contradiction… hmmm… but I’m not sure it’s a good thing to write novels… (laughs).

To write them or to publish them? You suggested in the BBC documentary that maybe it would be enough for you to just write them.

Oh, the two can be discussed… but I’m not here to save the art of the novel. Anyway, at the moment, writing novels remains the best way to discuss the human condition, but I don’t think the ultimate purpose of humanity is to write novels.

What do you think is humanity’s ultimate purpose?

I don’t know… (long pause). But going back to individualism, you can’t be against because it has no consequence (laughs). You still remain an individual so… (pauses). But, in a way, it’s not exactly true that we’re all individuals. It’s clear that it’s impossible to imagine a man outside humanity. He wouldn’t be a man. You’re made a man by humanity. If you go with wolves you do not become a man.

What about Romulus and Remus?

Ha! (laughs). No, I mean that humanity is a social species. Since the beginning it has been social. Bears, for example, are not a social species but humans are. So…

Do you like humanity as a species?

Not really. I think I… (pauses). I don’t like pigs (laughs).

If you could be an animal, what one would you be?

A wolf. Wolves are much more sympathetic and pleasant than apes. They will take other creatures into their social spaces. Wolves became more intelligent, but the hand was missing. They had no hands to be able to become something else. When it comes to intelligence and social spaces, wolves could be better. But that is not the case. We can imagine different possibilities . . .

Did you watch any of the World Cup?

Yes, a little. I’m not a real sports fan but I find the matches incredibly thrilling. Ireland and Spain, for example, was incredibly thrilling. The amount of suspense was incredible, the quality of the suspense. And sometimes I like the game. You see all types of different things in the people playing the match. It’s an interesting spectacle.

You began your literary career as a poet. Do you find writing poetry more satisfying than fiction?

Well, I am… (21 second delay)… it’s more pleasant to write poetry. It doesn’t mean that it’s superior, but it’s more pure pleasure than to write a novel.

Will you write another novel after Platforme?

I have no idea.

Your books seem to get you into so much trouble . . .

I don’t know… (pauses). Recently I wrote some things. They could have been articles, I think. But I didn’t publish them, I didn’t even try. I just put them on the Internet and… (pauses). Well, maybe it’s dangerous. I haven’t even tried to find a newspaper. I had a long conversation with (mumbles somebody’s name into wine glass) that I didn’t even try to publish so…

Do you use the Internet much?

Um, the way the Internet works… I realised that I made all… (long pause). Because Platforme has been published in Brazil, so I made all the interviews by Internet and I wound up going to Brazil without seeing anybody (laughs). So maybe it’s a future for me. I don’t know if it’s a good future, but it’s so easy… and it works.

The Bruno character in Atomised would have enjoyed the Internet. Plenty of masturbation material for a sex addict!

Yes! (laughs). But I was myself masturbating about real girls, when I was young, but I had no courage to speak to them. It was real material, a use of imagination (laughs).

The book suggests that the sexual liberation of the 1960’s brought only selfishness, materialism and nihilism – that Charles Manson was not some monstrous aberration in the hippie movement, but its logical conclusion. But surely there’s been more liberation in the ’90s. What do you think that will spawn?

Em… (long pause). The problem in France that we have come to is that, in a sense, sexuality is all about hype (laughs)… so it doesn’t happen anymore.

There have been some fairly vicious gang rapes reported in France recently…

Yeah, but there are more in America… (laughs).

Le Pen lost heavily in the French elections. What is your reaction to that?

Hopefully there will be a… (pauses). It’s a problem to see that LePen has no deputy and the Communist Party has 25. You cannot say it’s normal… it’s just the French system… we have got to face the problem since 20 years ago, but you can’t say it’s normal. It’s disproportionate. Some thoughts are obliged to stay underneath because it’s forced, and they become warped. So the system in France makes it that Le Pen has no deputy… and I don’t think it’s a solution.

Your grandmother, who raised you, was a communist, wasn’t she?

Yes, but it was a social class thing… a social class world. She never asked herself ‘do I want to be a communist or not?’ Everybody was.

Do you ever see your parents?

No.

Or your half-sister?

No.

Do you have any children?

I have one son from my first marriage. He’s a man now.

I’m surprised that you wanted to have a child yourself. After everything you’ve written and your own rotten childhood…

But you have to… (long pause)… OK, but he will face the same problems if he has children himself. It’s better to tell the truth. I think so… but maybe not (laughs).

Do you believe in monogamy?

Oh yes, yes (nods head emphatically). If you can make arrangements, you can stay with the same person.

Have you read Catherine Millet’s The Sexual Life Of Catherine M?

It’s a good book. It’s surprising but it will be hard to translate because very good French writing – elegant writing – is difficult to translate. But that’s the surprise because she has written a lot of articles, but this is her first book. And it’s good – very well written. She’s a very original person… because she loves sex, but she doesn’t like to be seductive. She’s afraid of seduction. And it’s very not typical for a French woman to be like that. It’s not a weakness.

You have an open marriage yourself, don’t you?

Yes, yes… and you can tell it in your article. I don’t mind. It can work.

You’re lucky!

Yes! (laughs).

How is your wife? I read that she was admitted to a mental asylum on September 11th, after death threats were issued against you by French Muslims, offended by Platforme.

She’s fine now. She was very… afraid. It was frightening, I suppose. Me, I was not afraid but it wasn’t rational. It’s because I have… (long pause). I don’t know… Well, maybe under the circumstances, because… I’m not courageous at all but when my life was in this danger I was not afraid. I was calm. I think it’s a question of… (pause). So my wife I think is more normal in that sense, so she was afraid.

Was there an actual Fatwa declared?

No. It was much exaggerated because, as a non-Muslim, it is hard to have a Fatwa. But… you know… you have to see things from a Muslim point of view. So I said, yes, Muslims are stupid, but it was all. I didn’t encourage the Fatwa because it was the point of view of a character within a book. That’s what they didn’t like. And I never mentioned the Muslim prophet.

Did it take you by surprise?

Yes. It was really sparked by an interview after the book came out. They asked me did I really think Islam was stupid and I said, ‘yes, of course, it’s a stupid religion’.

Most religions are stupid!

Yes, but there are some degrees (laughs). But what I said was not… desirable… to become a fatwa. And it was written by a journalist who hates me – and much exaggerated. And there was some sentences in the interview which were much more anti-monetarist than anti-Islamic and he didn’t put them in. He left things out, put things out of context and made them more blunt.

You’ve been living on Bere Island off Co. Cork for the last year or so. Do you like it down there?

Oh yes. It was a total success because it’s supposed to be good for writing to live in a place like this and, in fact, I wrote Platforme in eight or nine months, instead of two years. I don’t know if you will say the book is better, but in terms of concentration, it worked. The light is very… strange. It’s funny because my all poetry is very urban… and my books are urban. I don’t know if it shows in the new book. You see, I am very easily distracted and have not much self-discipline. In Paris I know too many people…

How are you getting on with those people now? In the documentary The Trouble With Michel, a few of your friends were saying that they weren’t sure they could remain your friends, after some of your more inflammatory comments.

Well, I have friends that remained friends.

Have you lost friends?

Not really. But there are people who I’ve discovered are… enemies. I am certainly the most hated writer in France. So I have discovered a lot of enemies that have shown themselves during all of this.

Does it bother you?

Well, the normal reaction is to go… (sighs and shrugs). But I can say that no friends betrayed me, not really. But I have discovered a lot of enemies, really. It becomes impossible because everything you say can be made into something else. So you have to take your distance.

I understand you’ve released an album, where you sing to the music of Bertrand Burgalat?

I don’t sing. It’s really more spoken word and… (pauses). It was so much different when I was young. When I was young we’d read poetry in bars, sometimes with music in the background.

Do you dance?

I’m a very bad dancer (laughs). I decided to stop dancing very early when I realised that I was not very good… and girls liked men to be good dancers – or not to dance at all!!

Do you ever smoke marijuana?

Oh yes… hmmm (laughs).

Does it help you to write?

Oh yes, but… except when I was a member of a rock band. It has no great effect on me, but the good thing is it makes music very slow – you feel the notes much better. But I don’t think it’s the ideal situation when you are a member of the band, because sometimes there is no more stress, because your impression of the music is very beautiful so… (pauses). I don’t know if my best concerts were played with it. They were certainly the most pleasant but not the best.

How about cocaine?

No, no. Doesn’t help at all – not for music or for writing. For writing, I don’t know why, but a state of half-consciousness is good. It can be obtained by drugs. It can also be obtained by the moment when you are not clearly awaken.

You drink quite a lot. Do you write when you’re drunk?

No. I do when I’m finished, but it’s not the same. In practical terms, when I write I write very early in the morning when I’m not exactly awakened. And then when I’m exactly awakened, I’m finished. Sleeping or dreaming is a really strange experience.

On average, how much of your day do you spend writing?

Normally two or three hours. Em, on a good day I might do four hours… on a very good day.

Do you enjoy your celebrity?

No, no… I have always been a megalomaniac in a way, but not in the sense of fame. For example, sometimes I have a great envy for film directors because they are not famous. Actors do the promotional job instead of them. In a way, I wanted to be important, but not to be famous. Sometimes I’m very secretive. But I wanted to make important things that everybody was talking about, I had this ambition. But I have not the ambition to be myself with my face in the magazines, no. I wanted to do the dark and awful man or something like that (laughs).

Well, you’ve certainly achieved that!

Yes… thank you (laughs).

Atomised is published by Vintage (£6.99 stg). Platforme will be translated into English next September