I have just finished reading Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables". Or, rather, I finished listening to it on CD. For a while, when I've been talking to people about it, I've felt like I was cheating by not picking up the book itself to read. But to be entirely honest, I have performed the mental task of reading almost precisely without the customary accompanying ocular task. I think there is nothing cheap or easy about listening to an audiobook. It's often more difficult. And it was infinitely more convenient to 'read' it in the car this way.
I've been thinking how best to summarize this book for people familiar with neither it nor the play based almost faithfully thereupon. Principally it is the story of an ex-convict in 19th-century France named Jean Valjean, through whose redemption and restoration to humanity we see possibility and hope for the downtrodden, desperate and untouchable people of our society; those Hugo calls "les miserables". The story begins with his release from prison and ends on his deathbed.
The problem with a really good book is that once it's finished it's difficult to really say one big thing about it. This book has given me cause to reflect on the redemption and transformation of a human soul through grace, but it has also given me a lens into fatherhood and sacrificial love. It has painted a robust and interesting contrast between paternalistic love and romantic. And it's been a humbling examination of the condition, both material and spiritual, of the poor in all ages and places. There's simply too much to say, and I'm not surprised it's been in print so long.
What I will say now though is on the subject of the one man in the story. I've been growing increasingly of the opinion that biography is perhaps the most beautiful and honest tool of history. That it most effectively accomplishes all that I want when I read any story: imagined or real. At its core, I think Hugo intended this to be more than just the story of Valjean, but the more I read the more I found myself bound up in this character. Valjean begins his story as a wretch. A freed galley-slave with no prospects, turned out of doors and ostracized. He is quickly embittered towards the whole of society. The weight of his guilt, even though his crime is paid-for, haunts him in every step. Eventually he finds himself directed to the house of a bishop, who hears Jean Valjean's whole deplorable story and every reason why he ought to be cast back out of doors. Then, the bishop feeds him, warms him by the fire, and puts him in a bed for as long as he needs.
It gets better. Valjean, chastening under the burden of the man's grace, seizes upon the dark opportunity that night to burgle the bishop's silver candlesticks and escape. When he is shortly thereafter apprehended and brought before the bishop, instead of condemnation, the bishop tells the police to let him go, that the silver was a gift but that Valjean forgot to take it all and presents him with still more. Grace upon grace. Forgiveness upon forgiveness.
The example of the bishop is beautiful. It shows us the costliness of grace. Forgiveness, if it's really transformative, can be tremendously painful. God's forgiveness of our iniquities costs Him something too. not a hurt that in any way diminishes his power, but a hurt that grieves Him nonetheless.
The rest of the novel, however, is a chronicle of the power in that work of grace. Valjean commits one more evil and is then so repulsed by that black taint in his soul that he never goes back. He assumes a new name to escape the law and his past, he makes his fortune, he gives out of his abundance of wealth and spirit to those broken people around him all the rest of his days. And his dogged need to give of self instead of taking costs him much. He has to confess to his crimes and then escape the police (which doesn't sound noble the way I said it, but I don't have energy to explain the extenuating circumstances), he takes in an orphaned desperate child, he lives as an outlaw assuming multiple names, and he even drags a hated young man his ersatz daughter eventually grows up to love on his back through 4 miles of sewer because her happiness is more precious to him than his own or even his life. The man is all gift and no receipt. All righteousness and no blot. And the best part is he's not impossibly good. He is good in the sense that a very good man can be. Imperfect, but recognizing his faults and allowing the grace he's been shown to work out his redemption over all of his days.
Reading this story I have been humbled and convicted and inspired. This is probably the most important story I have heard in quite some time. I highly recommend it - in whichever medium best fits your schedule - to anyone. The tale now immortalized by musical theatre in all its literary richness is something truly spectacular, and I hope you make a chance someday to discover it for yourself.
PS - Short disclaimer: there's a bit of French in it. Mostly names of people and places. If you're really Franco-phobic, maybe it's not such a great idea. Just watch the movie or something, then.
It's well advertised in the Venn-like overlapping space of our social circles that I firmly believe audiobooks count as reading. That said, I've recently found it a frustration that I can't stop to marvel at a particularly brilliant twist of phrase, or give it the nod of approval and recognition that an underline affords the traditional reader. I've just gotten through "Atonement," (Ian McEwan) and I was surprised (partly by the usage of a certain unmentionable four-letter-word, and a dose of a more common one that worms its way into my inner dialogue too easily after hearing it too often, and partly because I didn't expect to learn so much about reality in this read, especially from such an openly metafictional novel). It was a fascinating however-long-twelve-CDs-takes. Recommended.
ReplyDeleteThat said, I have to tell you I skipped over much of this post, as "Les Mis" is on my life's long reading lists and I don't yet know anything abut it - though my assumption is tragedy, if the title is to be considered at all. Glad to hear you're soaking up some of those classics before you head over to teach in the heart of some of the world's greatest literature. Who knows? Maybe your time over in the true English airs will transform you into a regular Chaucer! Or a Dickens, perhaps? Conan Doyle? Ahh, you choose. :) It'll be grand.