Balzac’s “Old Goriot”

Taking into serious consideration an old assignment for school, I decided to embark on a short Balzac journey. I’ve always considered French literature delightful after the 20th century, but utterly horrid before that. I have no idea why this kind of aesthetics doesn’t speak to me like it probably should. I do have the conscience of looking at a grand personality in literature when I’m looking at Balzac, but this doesn’t stop me from perceiving it as something dry, inert and downright boring. Of course, after a summer of Nabokov, everything seems tedious and pointless.

I don’t really enjoy this whole typology of character thingy. The subject is repugnant but that’s not really what’s important in a book. It’s the style – which is far from being great. In fact there is no style, no effervescence of language, no orgasmic syntax, no nothing that could sprung in me the joyful pleasures of good good literature. It was an irritating read, well it was flowy and easy, but not the kind of lecturing pleasure that makes you stop seeing letters. In fact, letters were all I’ve seen throughout this spectacle of rudimentary words, letting my imagination run wild in completely different sectors.

So no, I don’t plan on reading Balzac anymore, since this is, supposedly, a great introduction into his work. Maybe I would’ve enjoyed it in some earlier years in my youth, but now is certainly not a good time. Style is everything for me, and this one just doesn’t have it.