Customer Reviews

A Harlot High and Low (Penguin Classics)

5 star:		(3)
4 star:		(6)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

I just had to find out what happened to Lucien, when he was so mysteriously (and admittedly, a bit too miraculously) saved from suicide at the end of Illusions Perdues. This is the place to find it.

The interesting thing is that Lucien is not the principal player here: it is an equally mysterious mentor, whose identity and methods are revealed as the plot thickens. Another character is the "harlot" from the title in English, which misconstrues the character of the novel. She is Esther, who is Lucien's true love, whom he uplifts from prostitution to install as his secret mistress. There is also Nucingen, the Jewish banker whom Balzac despises (from the novel of the same name), and several wily spies.

I must say that, though I love Balzac, this novel wore a bit thin on me: it has too many unlikely coincidences and is crowned with a cynicism in the surprise ending that stretched way beyond what I could believe, even when taking into account the French judicial system. That being said, Balzac offers a wonderful tour of the underbelly of the life of the scheming courtesan: without revealing too much of the plot, having given up on art, Lucien is trying to enter the aristocracy as a diplomat with the rank of Marquise. But to do so, he had to marry the right woman, buy his ancestral grounds, and somehow pose as a dandy when he is in fact flat broke. One pole of the plot revolves around the maneuvering of his mentor, who proves himself exceptionally cunning, the other around Lucien's true love. Needless to say, there are betrayals, hidden enemies, and ruthless manipulations that destroy oh-so-many lives. In the end, it is mostly sad, except for...well, you have to read it to believe it! The view of the aristocracy in this one is rather oblique as they play behind the scenes, while I expected them to play center stage.

If there is one thing to sum up Balzac, it could be this: there is one chapter entitled, "boring chapter to explain four years of happiness" in which Lucien in love is portrayed. When I told my wife that it was winding down, she replied: "don't you mean it is grinding down?"

As usual, you need a strong stomach for this one. I got bored by the middle, at the height of all the unbearably sleazy maneuvering, but the last 200 pages really picked up the pace. To wit: I enjoyed the characters hurtling toward destruction in this one, which is usually the opposite: I prefer their hopes and hate their falls, except in the case of Lucien.

This book chronicling the lives of an up and coming minor noble, a harlot, and a "faux" priest/arch-criminal has some of the best character development I have seen. The plot is so convoluted and strange that it seems implausible. However, stranger things have happened! I was disappointed in the ending but still enjoyed the book

I must admit it is not as good overall as Lost Illusions, but this book is worth reading. It is like a twisted version of Les Miserables. There are some sublime moments late in the novel. It is a bit slow in parts of the book, but I found it worthwhile.

One of Balzac's greatest, a safari through the pitiless society of his time. Exquisite description, characters drawn both to scale and larger than life, and a rollercoaster plot . If you are diappointed in the ending, don't read any of his others as it is always the same : life goes on.

Unpardonable to misquote, but Oscar's ran something like "The saddest thing that ever happened to me was the death of Lucien de Rubempre".

I was hungry for this book for months after the end of Lost Illusions, which concluded saying that Luciens life in Paris would be continued in Scenes from Paris Life, obviously an abstract title to the Paris series of the Human Comedy. Finially I found it. This read much faster than Lost Illusions. There was more action packed into fewer pages, which really quenched my thirst for all the characters that I knew from Balzacs other novels and their going ons about Paris. This novel epitomizes Balzacs gossipy toned, money ridden, scandelous style . If you are daunted by the heavy and lengthy discriptions that fill so many substantially sized French novels, this is definitly an unintimidating enjoyable read! As juicy as the most scandelous TV show, although it may cheapen such fine writing to make a comparison like that!

This book is well worth reading for its vividly drawn characters, particularly Vautrin, and its unsparing portrayal of the collision between Parisian high society and its criminal elements. It is so overplotted, however, particularly in the later sections, that it becomes implausible. While it always holds the reader's interest, in the end it does not compel belief.

Like many other reviewers here at Amazon, I have a weakness for `Sequelitus.' What is this dreadful affliction, you might ask? Well, it is the compulsion to pursue a good story to its very end - enjoying the source media so much that it is paramount to ones mental comfort to locate and devour all related material. This can often lead to tragic result, for sequels tend, as a rule rather than as an exception, to wear thin the primary quality: the beauty and sweat-inducing power of the original diminished through needless repetition, theme-bastardization and/or the tangible fatigue of that most accursed of artistic predicaments: the necro-stench, the entropy, <the horror! the horror!> of author-enervation. Nothing like a terrible case of "twilight of the idols" to put one in a despondent mood! But, in the past few years, I've managed to curtail my tendency towards indiscriminate consumption. No more Wheel of Time for this jaded .com shopper! Get thee gone, foul Star Wars simulacra!

And yet. . . and yet here I am again. After the month-long endeavor of reading - nay, <savoring> - the delicious disenchantments of Honore de Balzac's *Lost Illusions,* I simply had to have the sequel post-haste. What would be the fate of Lucian Rebempre, *Illusions'* failed poet of increasingly ignoble achievement? Who _was_ the dastardly "priest" that plucked Lucien from the liquid depths of potential-Providence? Would they together storm the snooty ranks of Parisian high society, acquiring a noble rank for Lucien, enacting revenge on all those who had scorned the poet in his previous incarnation as a mudraker and news-shaper? I had to know. So, barely recovered from *Lost Illusions,* I cracked open this penguin edition of *Harlot,* eager for answers, desperate for the final contentment of my shameful sequelitus itch.

Alas, *A Harlot High and Low* does not live up to either the reputation or the narrative force of the previous volume. For although it shares the same techniques that have endeared this French author to my particular literary `taste' - that being a forceful Voice, a sensitive Ear, and an intuitive sense of balancing straight drama with the shamefaced attractions of its "melo"-histrionic cousin - despite these similarities in quality, *Harlot* meanders (like all Balzac) but rarely justifies its long-winded digressions; it simmers with harlot-heat, but the tensions hardly reach that particular boiling-point necessary for a cathartic climax; it is occasionally boring. Worst of all, after a sprightly pick-up of pace and a much-enjoyed battle-of-the-(criminal)-wits climax, the ending crumples in and around itself with desultory result: the other reviewers were right in that it comes within stomping-grounds of far-reaching, ludicrous, unlikely - pick your adjective, it'll do.

In fact, *Harlot* is a flawed progeny in so many respects - at least in the matter of base comparison - that, for insight as to _why_, we must examine the particulars around its construction, rather than take the (oft-correct) blindsight standpoint that pere Honore must have been milking the prime components of his past masterpieces in a vainglorious attempt at renewal. . . or for *money*, that silver-grasping Judas of artistic downfall, another foul-but-certain aspect of sequelitus. No, I believe the "blame" should be assigned elsewhere. Perhaps it is due to the fact that this was written during Balzac's final three years, when the strain of overwork began to catch up with his physical shell: there is certainly something fatigue-ridden and world-weary to be read *between* the lines, and though Balzac masks it well, it is an inescapable impression. Or perhaps the "blame" should be assigned to the translator - Heppenstall readily admits to having difficulties with some of the particulars of the text, and although I'm ignorant with the origin-language and thus cannot check comparatively, there seems something suspect with the balance of digression/progression, usually so keenly integrated in Balzac; it feels as if Heppenstall approached these delicate pace-issues as if he were in an automobile, chugging along, stopping every so often to put more gas in the tank, jump-starting the cranky old girl to get her going again, etc. - a rather grotesque metaphor, I admit.

In the end, I think it's a combination of the above theories along with the pertinent fact that Balzac wanted, initially, to just write a book about a prostitute, adding essential flavor to his social-strata opus: *Harlot* is considered part of _Scenes of Parisian Life_, and you cannot adequately delineate the sub-structures of this Gallic city-society without tackling the more sordid realities of its primal urges. I get the feeling that Balzac introduced Lucien and Vautrin as the twin passion-pillars on which to support his poor Esther, a woman elevated from base brothel squalor to the very highest levels of concubine-existence - and Lucien and Vautrin, inscrutable rascals that they are, came to dominate the story on their own accord. Esther simply could not compete with the satanic vigor of Jacque Collins' varied schemes . . . and in this regard, the novel itself suffers from the lack of clear-sighted predevelopment; not enough harlot for this *Harlot*! And yet Esther's passions are the only tangible _purity_ to be found from cover to cover; she is simple and true, a virgin-white canvas upon which these hypocrites and fools spurt their petty aspirations upon, and subsequently her plight is the only real tragic involvement.

Now, with my grievances expressed (except for one more, but I'll get to that in a moment), don't mistake my overall opinion of this novel - it frustrated me with its unevenness, but it's still a fine read in and of itself, at times entertaining, erudite and educational. I don't regret spending the time to read/absorb all of its insights/inconsistencies. It's just that it cannot compare favorably with its predecessor, and the end - without spoiling anything - is a remarkable cop-out as to the fate of the novel's protagonist. I found out later, by way of the introduction, that this wily scoundrel actually makes his final-incarnation appearance in *Cousin Bette* - AGGH! I burn with the itch: Sequelitus has infected me once again!

The artists journey was an excellent topic for a book and an easy excuse for a sequel. Balzac turns on his scathing depiction scope on all of society leaving no class unbothered even the most sacred class of them all--the ARTIST class. This last of a two series is unsuspectingly the most effigial of Balzac for the Human Comedy. The artist was the catharsis.

Some of the more titilating and manic moments of the novel have to be taken with a grain of salt. Yes, he was one of the fathers of the modern novel but he also had to move units. If you can sway past the soap opera moments and laugh past the startlingly believable pieces of human stupidity then you will enjoy Balzac.

If not, go read Guy de Maupassant for Darwin's sake.

I found this book to be a disappointment. I have read other works by Balzac in various translations (most of them in the Penguin Classics series)but I couldn't finish this one.

Why? I just couldn't read another page (I made it to page 259)... The book begins well enough, a typical Balzacian-beginning wherein a figure appears in the midst of a Parisian scene. We are once again in the midst of a stirring ensemble of gossip and curiosity. I enjoyed that part. The reader follows Lucien along, we meet his true love Esther and we meet the dubious Vautrin as well. Everything starts off with grace and intrigue.

And then it just dips off into the ridiculous. I found the character of Nucingen far too incredible to be believed. A man with so much money willing to give it all for glimpses of fair Esther (foolish and moronic for a man with so much money...he's more of a buffoon than a banker and I'm sure a banker would have more sense. It was far too unbelievable the ways he was screwed over in the book.) And of course reading the Polish aristocrat's conversation is equally excruciating (imagine someone talking with a stuff-nose and that is how Rayner Heppenstall has rendered the Slavic Baron's speech.)

For about two hundred pages, the intrigue begins to wear thin. It borders on farce at times, cartoon-like... two hundred pages of basically scamming money out of a stupid, unsympathetic character so other characters equally uninteresting can pay off their debts. The characterizations are weak, many who started out with three-dimensions begin to falter into two-and-one dimensional personas.

Unless you're really a fan of Balzac, I wouldn't bother with this one. Works like Pere Goriot, The Black Sheep, Eugene Grandet, Ursule Mirouet are far superior to this exhausting adventure. The pace of this book is high strung and hardly rewarding which is the main reason why I couldn't follow through with it.

Lost Illusions is worth a read but deserves a better sequel than this. I wanted to like this book but forcing myself through it wouldn't have changed my feelings.