I read the last of the dozen books that constitute my Back to the Classics challenge for 2021, Pot Luck by Émile Zola (Brian Nelson, translator) in November. I had been looking forward to this book all year as I like Zola, but I must say, I have never been in the company of such a collection of disagreeable people in quite a long time. I thought the novel would never end and I was heartily glad to bid adieu to Octave Mouret, and the various families (the Campardons, the Duveyriers, the particularly awful Josserands, the Vabres, and the Pichons) and their servants who live in an apartment house in Paris in the 1880s.
Pot Luck is a translation of the actual title of the novel, Pot-Bouille, which is supposed to convey the idea of a stew pot or a melting pot in which various ingredients are added.
I was really surprised at how much I disliked this book. About 50 pages in, I was thinking that it would be interesting. I like the time period and the setting. If there had been even one person who I could root for, admire in some way, or sympathize with, I would have ended up liking the book because it is well-written. However, the story was really an endless parade of conniving, self-centered, loveless, miserable people whose purpose in life seemed to be to make other members of their family even more miserable than themselves. That I can do without.
Now I am not sure which Zola I want to read next. I cannot say I'm in a dreadful hurry to read another, but I did like Germinal and The Paradise. I think it was just this particular book.
