The king only yields what the people take.

I am supremely grateful that Hugo was around twice as old as he was when he published this particular work before he came out with [b:Les Misérables|24280|Les Misérables|Victor Hugo|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1411852091l/24280._SY75_.jpg|3208463], for as much as I have delighted at the texts of various other literary wunderkinds, this book embodies what I can imagine readers most loathe about gothic/romanticism: overblown, discombobulated ciphers of figures parading around with their egregiously self-centered obsessions in a bloated cast coupled with certain lengthy digressions that all but beg to be abridged. Having deeply appreciated several adaptations, most notably for their respective music, of this story, I can't say that I wish that this work had never been written. However, I have to wonder what keeps this lumbering creature going outside the exigencies of academia the success of its modern interpretations, for it's not just in comparison to Hugo's magnum opus that this work miserably fails to pass muster. Now, would have I liked this better had I read it much younger? Perhaps, although if I had to choose, I'd rather not change my legitimate history of having, while in grade school, stumbled across and greatly liked an abridged version of [b:The Phantom of the Opera|480204|The Phantom of the Opera|Gaston Leroux|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1327867727l/480204._SY75_.jpg|2259720], rather than retcon something more "literary" into its place. So, disappointing? For sure. I was hoping Hugo would be one of the ones to rise above the curse of the revisited white boy author, but alas: I'll likely have to wait till a future reread of Les Mis for that to occur.

Fashion has done more harm than revolutions.

Coming from simplified adaptations as I did, I was rather amazed by the relative plethora of other characters bobbing about amidst the machinations of a much broader stretch of society than I had been prepared for. However, the farther I went, the more excessive those other characters and their associated plot lines seemed to be: Gringoire and Jehan seemed Jekyll and Hyde of the same personage, and all the government officials, noble ladies, and certain unnamed figures seemed to exist simply for the sake of the long drawn out, anti-Rromani plot. Even the appearances of the a king seemed rather pointless, as if Hugo was attempting to remind the contemporaneous readers how good they had it compared to long ago times. What I know for certain Hugo was attempting was to protect Notre Dame from certain popular desires to tear the entire structure down, and reading this in the wake of the drama that the architecture went through in recent years (by the way, search up how many of those rich folks ended up actually giving what they pledged to the reconstruction. I dare you) is ironic, to say the least. This intention explains, but doesn't smooth over, the panorama Hugo delved into halfway through the book, and seeing how successfully, almost gloriously, I made my way through similarly rhapsodic passages in a triply long text at the tender ages surrounding twenty, I have to say that these particular sections are far more information dump than inspiring, almost prophetic, pronouncements. There's also the matter of how many sensational stereotypes this narration drags itself along on, and while certain characters are strongly crafted enough in their own right to successfully live on in many an adaptation, the holistic achievement of the original wasn't near grand enough to excuse the dehumanizing mess that the story devolved into within the first 50 or so pages. So, if you're looking for a Hugo, I'd honestly rather you pick up an abridged form of Les Mis than a full one of this: Notre-Dame was a bestseller then, but as can be attested to by many a work by women and person of color, that does not guarantee survival.

This proves, besides, that one may be a genius, and yet understand nothing of an art which he has not yet studied.

Before this year is through, I plan to complete both my master's degree and finally receive my long looked forward to award for doing so: acquire my Les Misérables tattoo. I've had the quote and the form picked out for years, and now all that's left to is to see just how much I can fit on my back in an ideal and lasting for (too small a print causes intense blurring over time). As can be seen from this, then, Hugo still has a place in my heart that will soon be physically displayed right next to the mark of my devotion to Tolkien, and reading this other work of Hugo's did not change this plan of mine in the slightest. In fact, I'm grateful Hugo wrote this first, for within it I see many of the kernels that were destined to blossom into full righteous hope and compassion in the text that imprinted itself on my soul years ago, and I can imagine his looking back on this in somewhat dismayed nostalgia helped him go further beyond what even he thought himself capable of in writing. I can also imagine that the conflict and tragedy that occurred between the first publication and the next must have matured his grasp on the human being in all their riotous forms. In short, I see the words "scathing critique of society" applied to Notre-Dame in various sources, and I say, I've read far, far better, from both Hugo himself and others. This work is doing well enough today that I don't need to hedge my critiques any, but it does make me wonder about the fields of gothic and romanticism and the conjunction of the two: how much of it portrays undying humanity à la [b:Wuthering Heights|6185|Wuthering Heights|Emily Brontë|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1388212715l/6185._SY75_.jpg|1565818], and how much of it is so much sentimental stuff and nonsense. At least Hugo grew wiser over time: I shudder to think of other, second-chanceless works clogging the genres that I could in my youth have fallen prey to, once upon a time.

These chants sung by aged men, lost in the darkness, over that beautiful creature, full of youth and life, caressed by the warm air of spring, and inundated with the sunlight, belonged to the mass for the dead. The populace listened devoutly.

P.S. I could have said a lot more about Hugo's commentary on 'Hindustan' and the like, but it would simply be more of a similar tone, and I've rambled on long enough as is.