Almost everyone from my generation is familiar with Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables in one way or another, even if they don’t realize it. How is that possible, you ask? Easily! During my childhood, there were a few heroes every Soviet schoolchild was expected to look up to. Off the top of my head: Malchish-Kibalchish, Arkady Gaidar himself (legend has it that he commanded a regiment as a teenager), Pavlik Morozov (whose heroism is now questioned, but back then he was unequivocally a hero who suffered for the revolution), and—Gavroche. The boy who was shot by cruel soldiers at the French barricades while trying to gather bullets for the rebels.
We all knew about Gavroche because the episode of his death was included in the school curriculum for foreign literature. It was even explicitly noted that this was an excerpt from Victor Hugo’s novel Les Misérables. However, I doubt many paid much attention to that detail back then. Moreover, the way literature was taught in schools was such that few students were inspired to revisit or explore the works of these authors in depth later on.
So, I knew about the novel, I fully understood that it was a classic of world literature, and I could even point out exactly where it sat on the bookshelf at home 😉 But I never really felt inclined to read it. Then, in 2012, Hollywood released a film adaptation of the musical based on the book. Since I enjoy musicals, I watched it with great pleasure—without having the faintest idea what it was about. I loved Hugh Jackman’s performance (I like him in everything, really) and Russell Crowe’s as well. And a couple of scenes with Sacha Baron Cohen as Thénardier were pure burlesque! Several songs made their way into my playlist, and the story itself seemed intriguing, even though the musical presented it in a very superficial way, often leaving questions about what was left out. That’s when I decided—it was finally time to read the book.
Making a decision and actually following through are, as they say, two very different things. The book is far from small. In terms of volume, this single novel is roughly equivalent to the entire Witcher saga by Andrzej Sapkowski—that’s seven volumes. Because of this, I was hesitant to start, knowing it would be a long read requiring mental preparation. However, at the end of 2020, I finally made up my mind, despite my wife doubting that I’d manage to finish it—she believed it wasn’t the type of genre I usually enjoy.
The book is indeed complex and multifaceted. At times, it was difficult for me to continue, and as a result, it took me three months to read from start to finish, with periodic breaks to read other things. Throughout, I frequently asked myself whether I actually liked the book. My opinion wavered significantly. That’s why, even after finishing it, I let it “settle” for a while to reflect on the aftertaste and come to a more composed, comprehensive opinion.
To put it briefly, I have no regrets about reading this monumental work. The title, Les Misérables, is fully justified as it delves into the lives of many individuals, each cast aside by society in their own way. Their fates intertwine into a multi-decade tapestry where their lives cross paths repeatedly.
Fantine, a young woman abandoned by her lover and left alone to care for her daughter, shunned by society, ultimately descends into misery and death just to support her child. Her daughter, Cosette, left by her mother in the care of strangers—the innkeeper Thénardier and his wife, who only cared for the girl as a means of collecting money from her mother. The Thénardiers themselves, cheats and scoundrels, embody all the vices of society, unashamed to disregard even their own children. Inspector Javert, born in a prison, despises crime with all his being and places law above all else, even compassion. Young Marius, taken from his father by a grandfather who despised Napoleon and everything tied to the revolution. Little Gavroche, essentially abandoned by his parents to fend for himself, growing up on the streets only to die on a barricade. All of them are les misérables.
However, above all, this is the story of one man: Jean Valjean, a former convict who spent 19 years in prison for stealing bread to feed his nephews. Hardened and embittered by the world, his outlook on life and people was transformed by a single encounter with a priest. Over time, he became a symbol of righteousness and honor, though it took years of living in hiding since a former convict had no place in 19th-century France. Such individuals were forever outcasts, continuing to live beyond the bounds of society even after their release.
Jean Valjean’s life story is depicted in meticulous detail—his transformation into a new person, his influence on others, and his struggles with his own conscience. The musical adaptation doesn’t convey even a tenth of this, though Valjean is also the central figure in the musical.
And what can be said about the other characters? In the musical, they receive only brief moments of focus. Thénardier is portrayed as a schemer and a cheat, but the book reveals the depths of his depravity and lack of principles. Marius is shown as a rebel and revolutionary, while in the book, he couldn’t care less about revolutions (and is, frankly, quite a tiresome character there too).
Even Gavroche, who felt so familiar from childhood, is given much greater depth in the book, serving as a reflection of thousands of other street children of the era. As for the revolution, which had always been tied to his image in our childhood lessons, it plays only a secondary role in the book, serving as a backdrop to events and the development of individual characters.
The story itself is remarkable. But everything would have been perfect were it not for certain characteristics of the book and the author’s style. These are what made it difficult for me to form a final opinion.
Of course, every reader will have their own perception. But in my view, Victor Hugo’s storytelling is very uneven. At times, he delves into the lives of the characters, while at others, he veers off into long, tangential musings on topics that are largely irrelevant to the main narrative. These historical and philosophical digressions can sometimes stretch to seventy or even a hundred pages. Even the beginning of the book includes nearly seventy pages on the life of the bishop who briefly interacts with Jean Valjean. Sure, we understand that only a truly virtuous person could have such an impact on a hardened convict. But seventy pages of “the bishop’s life” just for this? In my opinion, that’s excessive. In the film, this is covered in just a couple of minutes, and the story loses nothing.
Elsewhere, Hugo devotes a similar number of pages to an extremely detailed account of the Battle of Waterloo, peppered with dozens of names that even historians might struggle to recall. Yet for the plot, only a couple of pages are truly relevant.
It feels as though the author used the book as a platform for his musings. This severely disrupts the narrative rhythm. He floods the reader with dozens of names and facts that mean nothing to those outside his era and have no bearing on the story. Yet you’re forced to slog through these thousands of words. What’s more, if you were to cut out most of these sections, the book would only benefit. Why, for instance, dedicate forty-five pages to the history of argot—a kind of French thieves’ cant? For the plot, it would have sufficed to briefly show that Gavroche and the criminals speak this jargon—no need for an entire manifesto on it.
Furthermore, both in his digressions and in the speeches of particularly verbose characters, the author seems unable to resist listing every possible synonym for every conceivable word. When a single monologue spans ten pages, repeating the same point and constantly wandering off-topic, you start to lose track of what’s being said and even begin to question the character’s sanity.
In short, perhaps this was the writing style of the time, or maybe Hugo was paid by the word… These sections significantly detract from the book.
Another issue that consistently stood out to me was the excessive number of coincidences and chance encounters in the story. The main characters constantly run into each other or turn out to be interconnected in implausible ways. Once is a coincidence, twice is chance, but three, four, five times? That’s overkill. Mild spoilers: Gavroche happens to pick up two boys from the street who, as it turns out, are his own brothers. Marius and Thénardier live in a house where Jean Valjean had previously lived and been tracked down by Javert. Éponine is sent to investigate the very house where Jean Valjean resides. And all of Jean Valjean’s encounters with his relentless pursuer, Inspector Javert, feel as if Javert has a GPS tracker on Valjean and is stalking him for amusement. And the list goes on. These “coincidences” are far too numerous, especially considering the characters live in Paris, which even at the time was a massive city—not some small village where everyone knows everyone.
As a result, I struggled for a long time to decide on a final rating. Jean Valjean’s story alone deserves an almost perfect five stars. But the verbosity and irrelevant digressions pull it down to a two. After several weeks of reflection, I’ve settled on a rating of 3.5 out of 5. I might even consider reading another of Hugo’s major works in the future—but making that decision will be even harder now.
My rating: 3.5/5
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