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Emile Zola is recognized as a great realist writer. But why is this?

Is it because of his wonderfully detailed and evocative descriptions of natural landscapes or of urban life? In my opinion, no.

Is it because of his nuanced understanding of human thought and his skill at accessing and writing about the deepest, most personal psychological motivations of his carefully drawn characters? Again, I would say no.

Is it his careful observation of political and social events and his ability to describe the whole of an age, the Second Empire of Napoleon III, from the highest levels of French society to its lowest? He has certainly achieved this, his original plan, but I would not say this is what makes him a realist writer.

No. The reason Emile Zola is a realist writer is because, just like real life, about two-thirds of the way through everything turns to shit.

For the umpteenth time here I am, well into another of his truly great novels, and I can hardly even bear to pick it up and finish it because everything, without a doubt, is about to turn to shit.

That immensely talented young painter whose work is so misunderstood and challenging to the establishment art world has been rejected by the Salon once more. He’s about to embark on his most brilliant and ambitious work ever, just as poverty and disillusionment set in.

That lovely young woman, that orphan, so in love with the shy, talented artist and so happy with life in the French countryside has returned to Paris and begun to pawn her clothes in order to support her increasingly troubled young husband‘s latest project.

Will this latest work be accepted by the Salon in a well earned and triumphant recognition of his genius? Will public acclaim restore to this lovely, talented and sensitive couple the wealth and happiness they so clearly deserve?

I think we know the answer to that.

If I were ever to write a novel I would want to copy Zola’s style and subject matter (albeit updated to today) as he is truly a great writer even without any of those modern or post-modern novelistic tricks.

But for a modern Zola, would everything still have to turn to shit on such an unrelentingly consistent basis? I think we know the answer to that too.