Essays on literary works - 2024

The Destructive Power of Money (Based on the stories of O. Balzac “Gobsek” and “Eugénie Grandet”)

Money ruins everything. That’s not a tweet—it’s an entire 19th-century French literary thesis dressed up in dusty cravats and tragic glances. Honoré de Balzac, that gloriously nosy, caffeine-fueled chronicler of Parisian rot, knew the truth before capitalism got its branding kit. And he didn’t whisper it—he carved it into stories like Gobsek and Eugénie Grandet, where gold isn’t just metal. It’s a virus, a personality type, a god with a ledger and no soul.

Let’s get one thing straight: these aren’t stories. They’re cautionary tales wrapped in bourgeois wallpaper. Psychological horror for the financially insecure. If you’re the kind of person who has ever hoarded Club Penguin coins or checked your bank app just to stare at the number like it might change by quantum miracle—Balzac’s talking to you.

Gobsek: The Human Safe With No Feelings (Except Spite)

Imagine Mr. Krabs from SpongeBob, but stripped of his cartoon charm and lobstered dignity, and then multiplied by existential dread. That’s Gobsek. He’s a moneylender, sure, but more than that—he’s the end result of what happens when a person stops being a person and turns into compound interest.

This guy doesn’t loan money. He devours people in monthly payments. In fact, Gobsek isn't even human; he's a pre-credit score manifestation of late-stage capitalism. Cold, calculating, and deeply suspicious of joy.

He’s described like a fossilized banker. Ancient. Dusty. Emotionally calcified. His Parisian flat is basically a coffin filled with IOUs. People owe him their lives. Literally. He knows it. He loves it. He never says it. Power through silence—total boss-level villainy.

And Balzac? He gets it. He doesn’t just write Gobsek as “bad.” That’s too easy. He paints him like a demon you almost respect. Like, hey, maybe if I were 80, unloved, and surrounded by decaying velvet furniture, I’d hoard too. Gobsek’s evil isn’t loud—it’s logical. And that’s what makes it terrifying. You can’t punch a ledger. You can’t guilt-trip a guy who thinks human emotion is a liability.

It’s the kind of horror that doesn’t yell; it stares. Through the peephole. With a calculator.

Eugénie Grandet: The Original Sad Girl Finance Icon

Now flip the script. Enter Eugénie. She's soft. Hopeful. A girl with the emotional bandwidth of a Studio Ghibli protagonist, stuck in a world built by IKEA dads with no soul. She starts off glowing with love and optimism—like a Tumblr poet before the student debt hits.

And then—boom—her father, Monsieur Grandet, slams the door shut. Not metaphorically. He literally controls the doors. He's the crypto-bro of the Restoration era. Rich as Midas, stingy as Scrooge, and about as emotionally available as a PayPal terms-of-service agreement.

Eugénie gets one shot at love—her cousin Charles, who shows up like some pastel-shirted distraction from her sad little gold vault life. He’s broke. He’s dreamy. He’s a problem. And Grandet sees it. He blocks it like a Netflix parental control.

But here’s the catch: Eugénie doesn’t rebel. She internalizes. She doesn’t run away; she becomes him. Quietly. Slowly. She turns into her dad’s economic ghost. Emotion shrinks. Generosity gets locked in a drawer. She doesn’t spend. She waits. She calcifies. Not because she wants to—but because in Balzac’s world, money isn’t just powerful. It’s contagious.

So yeah. She ends up rich. Alone. Spiritually bankrupt. You could argue Eugénie is the saddest billionaire in literary history. (Elon’s Twitter arc has competition.)

Money as the Original Toxic Relationship

Balzac’s whole thing? Money doesn’t just change people. It becomes them. Gobsek’s got moral rigor mortis because he traded warmth for interest rates. Grandet is the OG financial gatekeeper. Eugénie is the soft heart turned safe deposit box. And the scariest part? It’s all... believable.

Like, let’s not pretend this is “just the 1800s.” The vibes are immaculate and relevant. Your emotionally unavailable situationship who Venmos you down to the cent? Grandet. The coworker who won’t share a Google Doc without credit? Gobsek. The influencer doing #FinancialFreedom reels while crying into their $14 smoothie? Eugénie.

Money isn’t evil in Balzac—it’s seductive. It whispers in your ear like a mean girl in a high school movie: “Don’t trust anyone. Don’t feel too much. Invest in silence.” And people listen.

Materialism, but Make It French and Existential

Let’s not forget, Balzac wasn’t just writing rich people drama for giggles. He was dragging everyone. He saw society morphing—post-revolution, pre-industrial boom, mid-chaos. He didn’t trust the bankers. Or the aristocrats. Or the so-called liberals. Especially not the ones pretending their obsession with property was "just good sense."

He was watching people sell off their inner worlds—bit by bit—for stability. For approval. For power. Sound familiar? Late-stage capitalism didn’t invent soul erosion. It just made an app for it.

Gobsek hoards because he believes generosity is weakness. Grandet hoards because he believes love is a liability. Eugénie hoards because she was taught to. And in all three cases, the hoarding doesn’t protect them—it eats them. From the inside. Like spiritual termites with dollar signs.

So What Now? Do We Just Venmo Our Emotions?

Here’s where the TikTok therapist in me wants to scream. Because we still live in this weird emotional economy. We call it “boundaries” or “hustle culture” or “not getting too attached.” But really, it’s the same logic Gobsek used in his apartment of sadness: don’t give too much. Don’t love too much. It’ll cost you.

Even the way we talk about emotions sounds like accounting now. “Emotional bandwidth.” “Energy budgeting.” “Return on investment.” Ew.

But Balzac, in all his depressive genius, doesn’t give us solutions. He gives us... warnings. Vibes. Ghosts of who we could become if we let value systems replace values. If we decide that being owed is better than being loved. If we forget that people aren’t debtors or assets—they’re human beings.

Final Thoughts? No. Just One Sudden Collapse.

Gobsek dies, surrounded by treasures he never used. Eugénie lives, locked inside a fortune that means nothing. And you? You just clicked away from your online cart. Again.

Maybe that’s the real tragedy: not that money ruins people—but that it does so quietly. Efficiently. Like a machine you forgot was running in the background.

And the worst part?

You start to think that’s normal.

Gobsek and Eugénie Grandet aren’t just stories—they’re early warnings, dressed in corsets and cobblestones. Balzac wasn’t a novelist. He was a financial ghost hunter. And the spirits? They're still here.

Still haunting your Amazon wishlist.

Still whispering in your budget spreadsheet.

Still asking:

What’s it worth to feel something?