At 30 years old, he has already sunk several businesses and is drowning in debt.
Printer, type founder, publisher. Everything fails. He will owe money until his death, pursued by his creditors, changing addresses and names to escape them.
So he does the only thing left to him. He writes.
Not just a few hours a day. Entire nights, locked away, in a monk’s robe, fueled by black coffee that he downs by the dozen cups. He keeps up this pace for weeks, sleeps at dawn, and starts over.
In twenty years, he writes nearly 100 novels and short stories. And he has an idea no one had before him: to link them all together. The same characters move from one book to another, age, cross paths again.
He calls this ensemble The Human Comedy. The project is mad: to fit all of French society into his novels, from the convict to the banker, from the provinces to Paris.
Le Père Goriot, an old man ruined by his daughters. Eugénie Grandet, sacrificed by a miserly father. In telling these lives, he lays the foundations of the realist novel: to paint people as they truly are, driven by money, ambition, and passions.
And all the while, he is pursuing something else. For eighteen years, he writes to a Polish countess, Ève Hanska. A love story by letters, long-distance, that spans his entire adult life.
He finally marries her, in March 1850.
Five months later, on August 18, he dies in Paris, at 51, his body worn out by work. Victor Hugo comes to watch over him that night.
Honoré de Balzac will not see his work entirely finished. His characters, though, have never stopped living: The Human Comedy is still read everywhere in the world, a century and a half later.

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