[...] Nonetheless, it is evident that the wheel of fortune has turned, and Montherlant, as well as his almost exact contemporary and school friend, Louis Aragon, and other superb French writers no more than 10 years older, such as François Mauriac, Roger Martin du Gard (both Nobel Prize winners), and Georges Bernanos, are suffering a real decline in popularity. Have their reputations also declined? Certainly not among French readers who know their work, or among French literary critics capable of looking back beyond the fashionable novels of Michel Houellebecq. But for an author, the loss of readers, if it continues, is like a death sentence. In Montherlant's case, the time has come to lodge an appeal.
Montherlant was born April 21, 1895, in Paris, into a family of fairly rich, but, from a genealogist's point of view, obscure French nobility. His father — a royalist and reactionary to the point of despising the post-Dreyfus Affair army as too subservient to the Republic, and refusing to have electricity or the telephone installed in his house — lost most of the family's fortune speculating on the Paris Bourse. He died in 1914, unmourned by the family, and having communicated to his only son little beyond his taste for equitation and setting oneself in contemptuous opposition to society. [...]
The quote above is from Louis Begley's article, "The Pitiless Universe of Montherlant," which can be read in full at the New York Sun's website [link].
tout ce qui n'est pas littérature ou plaisir est temps perdu
And, from the publisher (link):
A sales pitch, but still...An astonishing modern take on Don Quixote, Chaos and Night untangles the ties between politics and paranoia, self-loathing and self-pity, rage and remorse. It is the darkly funny final flowering of the art of Henry de Montherlant, a solitary and scarifying modern master whose work, admired by Graham Greene and Albert Camus, is sure to appeal to contemporary readers of Thomas Bernhard and Roberto Bolaño.