On first glance the constant interspersal of non-literary elements among the extensive fragments of a narrative might seem revolutionary; a closer reading [of Les Géants, published in English as The Giants,] destroys the illusion created by leafing through the book at random and leads to the sobering realization that Le Clézio has actually up-dated Orwell's 1984 by writing a pop version of Zola's Au Bonheur des dames. There is even a coherent plot of sorts to be extracted from among the jumble of public-relations slogans, there is a traditional exploitation of symbols, and a familiar and reassuring unity exists underneath the apparent chaos. For everything revolves around the department store of Hyperpolis, the scene for the futile efforts of Tranquillité to find an acquaintance who works at the Information Desk. While her quest fails, she does succeed in distracting another habitué of the emporium, Machines, from his fascination with shopping carts and escalators. Aroused from his torpor, he is tempted to set fire to the shopping center. This laudable enterprise results in his interrogation (Kafkaesque, as is fitting) by the ever-vigilant authorities (either the giants of the title or their servitors). All this time a third major figure, a wayward boy who goes by the name of Bogo le Muet, steadfastly refuses to speak, because he is afraid that by opening his mouth he will do like the others and give orders. Even the style of the novel has its old-fashioned aspects which emerge like vestiges of a past cultural tradition so strong that despite his efforts the author cannot divest himself of its ruins…. Every feature of this book, whether literary or extra-literary, is an assault on the intelligence and the senses designed to force the reader to carry out the author's design. The fundamental flaw is that the propagandistic techniques which the author employs to urge the reader to incinerate Hyperpolis are the ones which were used to create it. The author neglected to imitate the exemplary behavior of Bogo le Muet, with the result that he does give orders. It is as if an opponent of brain-washing were to try to eliminate it by brain-washing its potential victims. So, in a very profound sense, this book is not a novel but an advertisement. The medium is the message and at the same time a contradiction of the message. For this reviewer, who does not like to have his mind manipulated in the service of any cause, be it for the conflagration of a department store or for fire prevention, there is the temptation of the simple response: il faut brûler "Les Géants," but by proffering such advice he would be emulating Le Clézio rather than Bogo. (pp. 799-800)