Les Misérables • Victor Hugo

I love the 19th-century French authors who produced such magnificent literature—books so exciting, gripping, and multifaceted that it’s hard to find this density anywhere else. After Flaubert, Zola, and Dumas, Victor Hugo naturally climbed to the top of my wish list and then onto the stack of unread books. Sometimes I save such books for a while because I know pure enjoyment awaits me. With Les Misérables, however, I didn’t wait long—I grabbed it right away.

At first, the plot sounds interesting enough, but from a brief blurb you can’t begin to guess what a masterpiece this is. At the center stands Jean Valjean, a former galley convict trying to find his way back into society, facing all kinds of adversity. Both society—as it presents itself during the Restoration, refusing to take a branded man back into its ranks—and his own inner life confront him with questions and conflicts that strike at the very origins and foundations of morality and conscience. Victor Hugo swings the heaviest of hammers here, handling themes with a sensitivity, foresight, and directness that repeatedly cut to the bone as you read.

Rectitude, honesty, candor, conviction, sense of duty—these are things which, when misdirected, can turn into something abominable and yet, even in their abomination, remain great; their loftiness, an outflow of the human conscience, endures even into the horrific. They are virtues marred by a single flaw: the possibility of error. From the pitiless yet sincere joy of a fanatic there still emanates something eerily admirable, even when he commits the most dreadful cruelty. (pp. 352–353)

He constructs characters cleverly and deliberately, pushing them to strong extremes and setting them against society. The spectrum runs from remorseless felons to Good Samaritans, with countless gradations and social strata in between. These contrasts feel like a glaring dissonance and hit the reader like a hammer blow. This book is a window into the deep, dark abyss every society carries within itself. It presents the human being as he appears within any social system: the rotten, stinking, egocentric scum of the earth—then and now. But not without nuance, which makes it all the more convincing.

In many places, this book reminded me of Dumas and Flaubert. It quickly becomes clear that Hugo is a pro, not someone just dashing off words. With deft narrative devices, he manages to make his story as thrilling as The Count of Monte Cristo, and indeed Jean Valjean’s adventures are just as captivating as those of Edmond Dantès. In The Count of Monte Cristo, the reader is very close to the protagonist in the opening chapters, learning his thoughts, his feelings, and the struggle he must endure. Later, the reader becomes merely an observer and no longer knows what goes on inside Dantès. One knows the protagonist, but only in fragments; one can only guess at the motives behind his actions, never be certain. Victor Hugo does something similar with Jean Valjean, though he blends these two styles. At times he steps forward as the narrator, giving the impression we’re hearing second-hand reports from his research into Jean Valjean; then, at specific moments, he describes Jean’s thoughts and emotions in minute detail. The reader knows the protagonist’s crises of conscience, thoughts, and character very well—until suddenly we’re observers again, wondering what Jean—whom Hugo likewise elevates (just as Dumas turns Edmond Dantès into an invincible avenging angel)—will do in a moment of conflict.

At several points Hugo becomes very expansive. Especially at the beginning, this can feel a bit disruptive, as he describes, for example, landscape details or character traits at great length and takes long detours. Yet what he offers reads pleasantly and creates such a comprehensive picture that you really immerse yourself in the book and sometimes feel like you’re watching a film. His prose feels like a voice sounding in your mind as you read; you often have the sense that Victor Hugo is chatting with you at ease. This is particularly because he occasionally shifts to a meta level and reveals himself as the narrator.

We could not pass by this extraordinary, unknown, and hidden house without going in, and bringing in as well the readers who accompany us and who, perhaps to the benefit of some, are listening to the sad story of Jean Valjean. (p. 538)

The look he casts at representatives of various social classes is also fascinating. Here, too, he takes his time, but the reader gains a solid impression of the thoughts and labors of people of that era—quite similar to what Flaubert does in Madame Bovary.

There were numerous scenes that gripped me deeply. Of course, this is partly because of the exaggerations mentioned above, which may feel contrived at times yet remain plausible; but also because Hugo knows how to create suspense, propel the story at decisive moments, and focus precisely on those details that determine the outcome of a scene. Here he plays in the same league as Dumas and delivers a truly thrilling adventure—though, starting in the third part, the middle of the book, he does overdo it a little. Even there, he reminded me strongly of Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo.

More precisely, three narrative devices he employs here sustainably heighten the tension. First, there’s the element of disguise, in the form of failed recognition. Old acquaintances cross paths without realizing it, giving the reader a head start in knowledge and generating a kind of anticipation. Second, there’s the aforementioned elevation of the protagonist, who becomes almost a superhero. As readers, we can be fairly sure that Jean—with his resourcefulness, his blend of former convict’s cunning and genuine kindness—will have plenty to throw at the antagonist. Third, chance rules the book—so extremely that, in a vast city like Paris, familiar opponents repeatedly run into each other by accident. At certain points, as with Dumas, I no longer quite bought it. These coincidences certainly serve the suspense, but they do strain the story’s credibility.

A central element is the thinking and acting of the characters. Hugo takes ample time to analyze thoughts, lay them out, and describe the characters—above all Jean Valjean—in detail. I’ve rarely encountered such direct precision; it’s fascinating to read, to follow, and to accept, because he portrays them as thoroughly human. He does so with words and sentences that are simply perfect.

What surrounded him here—this peaceful garden, the fragrant flowers, the merrily shrieking children, the serious and simple women, the silent convent—all of it worked upon him, so that his soul gradually took on a silence like that of the convent, a fragrance like that of the flowers, a peace like that of the garden, a simplicity like that of the women, and a cheerfulness like that of the children. (p. 595)

At the same time, the way the characters are drawn is also the book’s weakness, since they often embody only a single facet and only partially do justice to the complexity of human nature. Lovers block out everything else and surrender themselves entirely without a glance to the left or right, even as those close to them perish—wildly overdone, in my view. Antagonists are excessively evil, always devious, utterly emotionless even toward their own family; the compassionate are so selfless without reservation that they completely neglect themselves; politically convinced Republicans throw themselves into death without fear or even a hint of it; and the police inspector is practically a machine programmed by the law. He thus creates strong stereotypes, and together with the exaggerated, utterly implausible yet constantly occurring coincidences, these are the two things that bothered me. Still, I can forgive both, because the story and the characters’ actions are meant to carry a message. By exaggerating, he essentially shouts it in the reader’s face. And the coincidences are simple vehicles to deliver a gripping story. As the afterword reveals, some contemporaries—Flaubert, for instance—criticized him for exactly this.

The afterword concludes that Hugo presents a plea for goodness here—and I’d sign off on that. What also becomes clear is the strong religious dimension. The compassionate are blessed by God, and the ethics at play are consistently related to the divine. To me, he is decidedly antiquated on this point, because I believe morality should be viewed apart from religiosity, even if the two are often lumped together today and their connections are undeniable.

I picked up the edition from the Manesse Verlag. Up to now, the publisher hadn’t particularly stood out to me. But they offer some truly excellent classics, and the production quality is refined and elegant. The small hardcover is ideal for commuter-train reading and looks quite handsome, too. Going forward, I plan to get one or two more classics in hardcover, because it makes a big difference in feel and reading experience. Manesse has a few other little gems in its catalog, some already out of print. Once I’ve finished my first foray through their list, I’ll definitely report back.

Conclusion: Hugo tells this story with an intelligence, foresight, and empathy I’ve only found in the classics. He weaves political and social transformations, the differing perspectives of the Bourbons and the Bonapartists, and a politics-suffused zeitgeist together with the characters he portrays. The reader looks through the eyes of a contemporary observer at historical developments that led to the democratic republics we live in today—republics that, at the moment in Europe, are being trampled from all sides while a passive, phlegmatic populace looks on. Reading about this struggle makes that precious legacy all the more palpable to me, while also making it clear that today’s Europeans are nowhere near worthy of it. His heavily stylized and sometimes stereotypical characters nonetheless convey a clear and powerfully persuasive message. This book holds a mirror up to society, mercilessly showing its hideous sides without forgetting that there is also much light within. Brimming with emotion, a gripping story, and deep insights into human abysses as well as pure goodness, Les Misérables is a masterpiece.

Book information: Les Misérables • Victor Hugo • Manesse Verlag • 1352 pages • ISBN 9783717580065