by Tatalo Alamu
God bless Honore de Balzac, wherever he may be at this moment. The great French novelist lived the impossible contradictions of post-revolutionary France as if he was himself a character in a great novel. In order to chronicle for posterity the tormenting improbabilities of his beloved nation with as much fidelity and accuracy as possible, Balzac simply appointed himself a honorary secretary of the society. From this vantage observatory and ringside listening post, Balzac began churning out great historical novels.
But so consumed was the great man by this moveable feast of superior reality that at the end of his life, Balzac was no longer able to separate reality from fiction. On his death bed, Balzac was heard screaming for his favourite physician to come and attend to him. “ Call me Banchioc!! Only Banchioc can save me now!” But there was a minor problem. Banchioc indeed was not a life or living doctor. He was actually one of Balzac’s own greatest fictional creations.