I'm not reading anything this week (I'll read and respond to comments next week) but I did finish Prometheus: The Life of Balzac on Friday. I loved every horrible minute; it was one of the most enjoyable biographies I've ever read.
(
And the ever-present doubt remained: how trust a man who had never known the difference between fact and fiction? )
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*HUGS*
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I don't know, really. I think he's the kind of trouble I tend to find slightly attractive despite my better judgement, so there's a little automatic machine at the back of my mind making excuses for him even as I roll my eyes in despair. He's a bit like Pigpen from Peanuts, except instead of the little cloud of dust, he's got sandstorms of intoxicating talent and energy and unbelievable obliviousness swirling all around him, knocking all the tea things off the table and getting grit in the consommé.
Not that that makes it any better, I realize as I write this.
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:|
BALZAC. >:|
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One of my favorite things from this book was learning that Balzac and Hugo were on friendly terms and respected each other, despite their differences.
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I'd also recommend many the novellas, if you can get them, and maybe they're even a better place to start: The Deserted Woman, The Girl with the Golden Eyes, The Unknown Masterpiece are all pretty awesome.
That's kind of Balzac's own view of genius, it's pretty unpleasant when it shows up, considering he's probably thinking of himself. >_>
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(I have no trouble believing that Balzac is thinking of himself when he writes about genius. "Honoré thinks he's either everything or nothing" -- that's how his mother summed him up. If not in the depths of despair and convinced of his own worthlessness, then The Most Important Writer Ever in the History of Language. And even the conviction of worthlessness is a symptom of ego. :|)
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