Initial thoughts - the key to being a great lover is taking your time. The French are renowned as great lovers. Hence, they take their time. Balzac takes his time, at least a writing. So far I have had descriptions of the miserable quarter where the boarding house is. Of the outside of the boarding house, even down to the fact that the windows on theground floor have metal grilles over them. I have been on a tour of the garden, and spent some timein the shade of the lime trees that grow at the far end. I have loitered in the sitting room, and then moved through to the dining room, where I meet my first living character - the cat, who seems friendly enough. Then I am subjected to brief biographies of the denizens of the boarding house, before the redoubtable Widow What's-her-name shuffles in.
By this point, I am becoming aware of two things. First, I am finding this already dreary. Perhaps this is down to the baleful influence of Samuel Beckett. I am reading OG concurrently with a mammoth bio of Beckett, and I remember he had a low opinion of Balzac ("But still I keep reading" he grumbled). I'll dig up the appropriate quotes. But Balzac takes so long. At least five pages in, and nothing has blown up, no-one has died, hit another character, slept with another character or even said a word.
Second, Balzac keeps popping into his own narrative to make arch comments, e.g.
That word drama has been somewhat discredited of late; it has been overworked and twisted to strange uses in these days of dolorous literature; but it must do service again here, not because this story is dramatic in the restricted sense of the word, but because some tears may perhaps be shed intra et extra muros before it is over.That was paragraph two. Then, in paragraph three:
And you, too, will do the like; you who with this book in your white hand will sink back among the cushions of your armchair, and say to yourself, “Perhaps this may amuse me.” You will read the story of Old Goriot’s secret woes, and, dining thereafter with an unspoiled appetite, will lay the blame of your insensibility upon the writer, and accuse him of exaggeration, of writing romances. Ah! once for all, this drama is neither a fiction nor a romance! All is true,—so true, that everyone can discern the elements of the tragedy in his own house, perhaps in his own heart.Which just rankles, frankly. I know we should be impressed by this post-modern ironic wah wah wah bollocks but I find it annoying. Can't he just settle down and tell his story. It was still going on when I gave up reading for the night. For some reason, I have developed a dislike of books that are self-concious in this manner. It gives the whole affair a very studied atmosphere, like our characters are little mannequins that Blazac has set up for our entertainment - inspite of the disclaimer just quoted.
AFTER
With a bit of reflection, I am pleased to report that I have hated Balzac all my life.
Previously, I hated him because I spent many years under the impression that he was really a she, and when I discovered the truth I had the distinct feeling that I had been tricked. I hadn't read any of the trickster's books until now, but now I can say I hate Balzac with authority.
I found the book very annoying. I have grumbled about the prolonged opening sequence, and a couple of replies ago I reported that I thought things were finally starting to move. This was when Rastignac goes to visit his cousin and starts to untangle the story of Goriot and his daughters.
After that, however, things rapidly fall to pieces. Rastignac is a bore, and his lady friends are more unlikable when they are being nice than when they are being vile. Goriot seems a fool and (shame on me) as I waded through his dying monologue I only wanted Rastignac to throttle him.
The only character that seems intermittently interesting is Vautrin/Collin, but his sudden exposure seems preposterous. The book has the sentimentality, absurdity and melodrama of Dickens boiled down into concentrated form, with the great bits of Dickens sorely missing. I know the book is meant to fit into a sequence and I should already be intimately aquainted with all these characters and goings on, but, since reading this book has been so miserable, why should I spend more time finding out about them?
(An aside - the only thing that makes me at all inclined to try and like this book is the fact that I share a surname with one of the baddies. Nice to learn what a cad my Frenchie cousin was!)
Also in need of throttling was M. Balzac himslef, as he can't write a straightforward sentence with out making some (meant to be funny, I suppose) reference to Greek mythology, or passing some sanctinonious judgement on a character. I hate that sort of authorial intrusion - how can there be meaningful suspense if the author is butting-in every five lines to tell you what a stinker so-and-so is?
The blurb of my edition claimed that Balzac laid the foundations for Zola and Flaubert. This may be true, but we should remember that foundations are usually buried, for good reason.
