A review by agenbite
Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

5.0

“The book that the reader has before his eyes at this moment is from one end to the other, as a whole and its every detail, whatever its irregularities, its exceptions or shortcomings, a step from bad to good, from appetite to awareness, from rottenness to life, from bestiality to duty, from hell to heaven, from nothingness to God. Starting point: matter; end point: the soul. A hydra in the beginning, an angel at the end.”

Hugo himself expatiates innumerably on the nature of the leviathan he’s conjured, yet excepting this quote, his brilliant prose is never restrained; the world he has mirrored, boundless in its content, would logically be unfaithful if asphyxiated by the written word. But of course, this concession was granted, or else we would not have this work to behold.

Most art worth its salt in profundity attempt to replicate reality, and very few that I’ve witnessed actually achieve this in earnest, and instead crumble under the unreasonable ambition of realism lacking that spark of the divine, or the fantastic; the loss of humanity by contusing the material, subverting pandemonium. Les Miserables caught me off guard at points for the reliance the narrative had on plot contrivances. There’s a particular section about halfway through, wherein the unwound plot points of the last 600 pages are suddenly pulled tight in a near comic display of coincidence which hit me with a terrible case of sneering whiplash. It was only after I understood the significance of the story being told that I came to appreciate the wholehearted shrugging off of believability, so as to impress the inevitability of the improbable; of the unknown infinite that Hugo, and all of Les Miserables is enamoured with. The narrative itself is not the draw here, and neither does the prose and structure outshine its contemporary peers (though they are undeniably stellar); something like The Brothers Karamazov demolishes this when scrutinising and comparing the two for their respective craft and thematic depth. However, what Les Miserables holds above all other works in my (admittedly limited) library is the unmatched breadth. There is no scruples held on the liberal inclusion of detail and exposition, which first appear unnecessary, but result in a uniquely whole picture. While at times the reading was laborious, my experience would not have been as revelatory without the essays that inhabit the periphery and overflow with the excess of first and second-hand history. Whether it was the diatribes on Waterloo, convents, sewers, barricades, metal-work, shit, slang, class, finery, or the restoration, all coalesce into this brilliant zenith which intimates an {unknowable} grandiosity, while still observing humility. As Hugo would say, the unfathomable infinite met with the material, and natural finite; transcribing the stars unto the page and retaining the detritus of the heavens.

Dismissing the waxing and waning of whatever god awful poetic spin I’m imparting on the work, I want to talk about something I actually have an ounce of credibility in speaking of, my encounter with this story. When I was young I was incredibly lucky to be able to see the musical adaptation, suffice to say it is a near flawless interpretation (in my very biased opinion). What is truly special about this story is as much the devil in the details, as it is the simplicity of its narrative sway, thematic integrity, and character constitution; universality is a more accurate label. I would not be the person I am today without learning of Javert’s confrontation with the complexity of human nature, Jean Valjean’s struggle with the saint and sinner within him, Marius’ answering of the call of revolution, Cosettes’ plumbing of the depths of the heart and Eponine’s travail with poverty and loneliness. Neither would I hold a complete picture of humanity in the face of injustice, desire and the turmoils of longing, the yoke and fallibility of law and dogma, the constant grinding of the axle of progress, solidarity amidst separation, and the divinity of obviating the extrinsic by exorcising the right to cogitate on our positions in society; to counter oppression with love. To me, this story is eternal, it moved me to tears a decade ago, and it did so today, it taught me of life a decade ago, and will continue to do so for as long as I live.

Les Miserables’ poignancy is not from any particular technical or artistic merit, but the depthlessly transcendent tale it weaves of the human condition which make it the definitive epic of life.