The Hunchback Of Notre-Dame (2001) - Plot & Excerpts
This isn't a review of the book itself, but rather a sampler of its English translations. Since the ratio of English readers of Hugo to English translators of Hugo is perilously close to 1:1, I thought a quick taste test was in order, so I've whipped up this plateau d'amuse-gueules so that you can find your favorite. I've compiled as many versions of the opening paragraph(s) as I could find online; I had no luck unearthing Hazlitt [1833], but most of the others are here. I've ended with Hugo's original French, the essence of which will be surprisingly intelligible after you've parsed it against a couple of the less impressionistic translations. (Just for fun, I've added my own translation at the end, so you can see whether my opinion is worth a crap.) Please click 'Like' if you found this useful - it will make it easier for other people to find it!If you want an opinion without having to slog through all these, I think the only ones close to great literature in English are Beckwith [1895] and maybe Sturrock [1978], who seems to follow Beckwith rather closely. Beckwith is quite good, with Sturrock a notch below, and all the rest defacing Hugo as much as his detested 'masons' were then defacing the medieval facade of Paris.:: Shoberl [1833] ::On this day 348 years, six months, and nineteen days since the good people of Paris were awakened by a grand peal from all the bells in the three districts of the City, the University, and the Ville. The 6th of January, 1482, was, nevertheless, a day of which history has not preserved any record. There was nothing worthy of note in the event which so early set in motion the bells and the citizens of Paris. It was neither an assault of the Picards or the Burgundians, nor a procession with the shrine of some saint, nor a mutiny of the students, nor an entry of our "most redoubted lord, Monsieur the king," nor even an execution of rogues of either sex, before the Palace of Justice of Paris. Neither was it an arrival of some bedizened and befeathered embassy, a sight of frequent occurrence in the fifteenth century. It was but two days since the last cavalcade of this kind, that of the Flemish ambassadors commissioned to conclude a marriage between the Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of the Cardinal of Bourbon, who, in order to please the king, had been obliged to receive this vulgar squad of Flemish burgomasters with good grace, and to entertain them at his hotel de Bourbon with a goodly morality, mummery, and farce, while a deluge of rain drenched the magnificent tapestry at his door. :: Anonymous [19th century, adopted by Everyman's Library] ::On the 6th of January, 1482, the Parisians were awakened by the noise of all the bells within the triple circuit of the City, the University, and the Town ringing in full peal. Yet this is not a day of which history has preserved any remembrance. There was nothing remarkable in the event which thus put in agitation so early in the morning the bells and the good people of Paris. It was neither an assault of Picards or of Burgundians; nor a shrine carried in procession; nor a revolt of scholars in la vigne de Laas; nor an entry of notre dit tres-redoute seigneur Monsieur le Roi - that is, in plain English, of their most dread lord the King ["In good plain English"!? - Matvei]; nor yet a good hanging up of thieves, male and female, at the Justice de Paris (justice and gibbet having been synonymous in the good old feudal times)[That remark is also actually in the translation - Matvei]. Neither was it the sudden arrival, so frequent in the 15th century, of some ambassador and his train, all covered with lace and plumes. Scarcely two days had elapsed since the last cavalcade of this sort, that of the Flemish envoys commissioned to conclude the marriage treaty between the Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of Monsieur le Cardinal de Bourbon, who to please the king had been obliged to give a gracious reception to that rude train of Flemish burgomasters, and entertain them, at his Hotel de Bourbon, with one of the rude dramatic exhibitions of the time, while a beating rain drenched the magnificent tapestry at his door. :: Alger [1882] ::348 years, six months, and nineteen days ago today, the Parisians were waked by the sound of loud peals from all the bells within the triple precincts of the City, the University, and the Town. And yet the 6th of January, 1842, is not a day of which history takes much note. There was nothing extraordinary about the event which thus set all the bells and the citizens of Paris agog from early dawn. It was neither an attack from the Picards or the Burgundians, nor some shrine carried in procession, nor was it a student revolt in the Ville de Laas, nor an entry of "our greatly to be dreaded lord the king", nor even the wholesale slaughter of a band of thieves before the Palace of Justice. Neither was it the arrival, so frequent during the 15th century, of some plumed and laced embassy. It was scarcely two days since the last cavalcade of this sort, that of the Flemish ambassadors empowered to arrange a marriage between the Dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had entered Paris, to the great annoyance of Cardinal Bourbon, who, to please the king, was forced to smile upon all this rustic rout of Flemish burgomasters, and to entertain them at his own mansion with "a very fine morality and farce", while a driving rainstorm drenched the splendid tapestries at his door. :: Hapgood [1888] :: Three hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago today, the Parisians awoke to the sound of all the bells in the triple circuit of the city, the university, and the town ringing a full peal. The sixth of January, 1482, is not, however, a day of which history has preserved the memory. There was nothing notable in the event which thus set the bells and the bourgeois of Paris in a ferment from early morning. It was neither an assault by the Picards nor the Burgundians, nor a hunt led along in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the town of Laas, nor an entry of "our much dread lord, monsieur the king," nor even a pretty hanging of male and female thieves by the courts of Paris. Neither was it the arrival, so frequent in the fifteenth century, of some plumed and bedizened embassy. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of that nature, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of M. le Cardinal de Bourbon, who, for the sake of pleasing the king, had been obliged to assume an amiable mien towards this whole rustic rabble of Flemish burgomasters, and to regale them at his Hôtel de Bourbon, with a very "pretty morality, allegorical satire, and farce," while a driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries at his door.:: Beckwith [1895] ::Exactly 348 years, six months, and nineteen days have passed away since the Parisians were awakened by the noise of all the bells within the triple walls of the city, the University, and the town, ringing a full peal. Yet the 6th of January, 1482, was not a day of which history has preserved any record. There was nothing remarkable in the event which thus put in agitation so early in the morning the bells and the good people of Paris. It was neither an assault of the Picards or of the Burgundians, nor a shrine carried in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the vigne de Laas, nor an entry of their most dread lord the king, nor a grand hanging up of thieves, male and female, at the Justice de Paris. Neither was it the sudden arrival, so frequent in the fifteenth century, of some ambassador and his train, all covered with lace and plumes. Scarcely two days had elapsed since the last cavalcade of this sort -- that of the Flemish envoys commissioned to conclude the marriage treaty between the Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders -- had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of Monsieur le Cardinal de Bourbon, who, to please the king, had been obliged to give a gracious reception to that rude train of Flemish burgomasters, and entertain them, at his Hotel de Bourbon, with one of the rude dramatic exhibitions of the time, while a beating rain drenched the magnificent tapestry at his door. :: Bair [1956] :: On January 6, 1482, the people of Paris were awakened by the tumultuous clanging of all the bells in the city. Yet history has kept no memory of this date, for there was nothing notable about the event which set in motion the bells and citizens of Paris that morning. It was not an attack by the Picards or the Burgundians, a procession carrying the relics of some saint, an entry of "Our Most Dread Lord, Monsieur the King," nor even a good hanging of thieves. Nor was it the arrival of some foreign ambassador and his train, all decked out in lace and feathers, a common sight in the 15th century. It had been scarcely two days since the latest cavalcade of this kind had paraded through the streets: the delegation of Flemish ambassadors sent to conclude the marriage between the Dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders. To his great annoyance, Cardinal de Bourbon, in order to please the king, had been obliged to give a gracious reception to that uncouth band of Flemish burgomasters and entertain them in his mansion. [Yes, Bair omitted the driving rain drenching the tapestries! - Matvei]:: Unknown (though after you read this, it will be clear that the translator was Alan Smithee) [Wordsworth Classics edition - perhaps Cobb 1964?] ::One morning, 348 years, six months, and nineteen days ago, the Parisians were awakened by a grand peal from all the bells, within the triple enclosure of the City, the University, and the Town. Yet the 6th of January, 1482, was not a day of which history has preserved any record. There was nothing remarkable in the event that so early in the morning set in commotion the bells and the bourgeois of Paris. It was neither a sudden attack made by Picards or by Burgundians, nor a shrine carried in procession, nor a student fight in the city of Laas, nor the entry of 'our most dread lord the King', nor even a goodly stringing up of thieves, male and female, on the Place de la Justice. Nor it was it a sudden arrival, so common in the 15th century, of some ambassador and his train, all belaced and beplumed. Only about two days ago, indeed, the last cavalcade of this kind, Flemish envoys commissioned to conclude the marriage treaty between the young dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of Cardinal Bourbon. To please the king, his Eminence had undertaken to give gracious reception to the rough crowd of Flemish burgomasters, and to entertain them at his Hotel de Bourbon with a 'very fine morality, burletta, and farce,' whilst a beating rain was all the time drenching his magnificent tapestries at his portals. :: Sturrock [1978] ::348 years, six months, and nineteen days ago today, the people of Paris awoke to hear all the churchbells in the triple enclosure of the City, the University, and the Town in full voice. Not that 6 January 1482 is a day of which history has kept any record. There was nothing noteworthy about the event that had set the burgesses and bells of Paris in motion from early morning. It was not an assault by Picards or Burgundians, it was not a reliquary being carried in procession, it was not a student revolt in the vineyard of Laas, it was not an entry by 'our most redoubtable Lord Monsieur the King', it was not even a fine hanging of male and female thieves on the gallows of Paris. Nor was it the arrival, so frequent in the 15th century, of an embassy, in all its plumes and finery. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of this kind, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, much to the annoyance of Monsieur the Cardinal of Bourbon, who, to please the king, had had to put on a smile for this uncouth mob of Flemish burgomasters and entertain them, in his Hotel de Bourbon, with a 'very fine morality, satire, and farce', as driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries in his doorway.:: Krailsheimer [1993] ::Just three hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago today Parisians woke to the sound of all the bells pealing out within the triple precinct of City, University, and Town. The sixth of January 1482 is not, however, a day commemorated by history. There was nothing very special about the event which thus launched the bells and the people of Paris into movement from early in the morning. It was not an attack by Picards or Burgundians, not a procession of relics, not a student revolt in the Laas vineyard, not ‘our aforesaid most dread sovereign Lord the King’ making his entry, not even the fine spectacle of men and women being hanged for robbery at the Palais de Justice in Paris. Nor was it the arrival of some embassy, a frequent occurrence in the fifteenth century, all bedizened and plumed. It was hardly two days since the last cavalcade of that kind, the Flemish embassy sent to conclude the marriage of the Dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had entered Paris, much to the annoyance of the Cardinal de Bourbon, who, to please the King, had had to put on a welcoming smile for this rustic bunch of Flemish burgomasters and treat them, in his Hotel de Bourbon, to ‘a very fine morality, satire, and farce’, while torrential rain soaked the magnificent tapestries hung at his door.:: Liu [2002] ::Three hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago, the good people of Paris awoke to the sound of all the bells pealing in the three districts of the Cité, the Université, and the Ville. The sixth of January, 1482, was, however, a day that history does not remember. There was nothing worthy of note in the event that set in motion earlv in the morning both the bells and the citizens of Paris. It was neither an assault of the Picards nor one of the Burgundians, nor a procession bearing the shrine of some saint, nor a student revolt in the vineyard of Laas, nor an entry of “our most feared Lord, Monsieur the King,” nor even a lovely hanging of thieves of either sex before the Palace of justice of Paris. It was also not the arrival of some bedecked and befeathered ambassador, which was a frequent sight in the fifteenth century. It was barely two days since the last Cavalcade of this kind had been seen, as the Flemish ambassadors commissioned to conclude a marriage between the Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders had entered Paris, to the great annoyance of the Cardinal de Bourbon, who, in order to please the King, had been obliged to receive the entire rustic crew of Flemish burgomasters with a gracious smile, and to entertain them at his Hotel de Bourbon with “very elaborate morality plays, mummery, and farce,” while pouring rain drenched the magnificent tapestry at his door.:: Unknown [CreateSpace edition, 2013] ::348 years, six months, and nineteen days ago today, the Parisians awoke to the sound of all the bells in the triple circuit of the city, the university, and the town ringing a full peal. The 6th of January, 1842, is not, however, a day of which history has preserved the memory. There was nothing notable in the event which thus set the bells and the bourgeois of Paris in a ferment from early morning. It was neither an assault by the Picards nor the Burgundians, nor a hunt led along in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the town of Laas, nor an entry of 'our much dread lord, monsieur the king', nor even a pretty hanging of male and female thieves by the courts of Paris. Neither was it the arrival, so frequent in the 15th century, of some plumed and bedizened embassy. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of that nature, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of M. le Cardinal de Bourbon, who, for the sake of pleasing the king, had been obliged to assume an amiable mien towards this whole rustic rabble of Flemish burgomasters, and to regale them at his Hotel de Bourbon, with a very 'pretty morality, allegorical satire, and farce', while a driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries at his door. :: and at long last ... ::Il y a aujourd’hui trois cent quarante-huit ans six mois et dix-neuf jours que les parisiens s’éveillèrent au bruit de toutes les cloches sonnant à grande volée dans la triple enceinte de la Cité, de l’Université et de la Ville.Ce n’est cependant pas un jour dont l’histoire ait gardé souvenir que le 6 janvier 1482. Rien de notable dans l’événement qui mettait ainsi en branle, dès le matin, les cloches et les bourgeois de Paris. Ce n’était ni un assaut de picards ou de bourguignons, ni une châsse menée en procession, ni une révolte d’écoliers dans la vigne de Laas, ni une entrée de notre dit très redouté seigneur monsieur le roi, ni même une belle pendaison de larrons et de larronnesses à la Justice de Paris. Ce n’était pas non plus la survenue, si fréquente au quinzième siècle, de quelque ambassade chamarrée et empanachée. Il y avait à peine deux jours que la dernière cavalcade de ce genre, celle des ambassadeurs flamands chargés de conclure le mariage entre le dauphin et Marguerite de Flandre, avait fait son entrée à Paris, au grand ennui de Monsieur le cardinal de Bourbon, qui, pour plaire au roi, avait dû faire bonne mine à toute cette rustique cohue de bourgmestres flamands, et les régaler, en son hôtel de Bourbon, d’une moult belle moralité, sotie et farce, tandis qu’une pluie battante inondait à sa porte ses magnifiques tapisseries.:: Matvei P [2014] ::It was on this day, three hundred and forty eight years, six months, and nineteen days since, that the people of Paris awoke to the din of all the bells ringing out a grand peal from the triple ramparts of the City, the University, and the Town. Yet the 6th of January, 1482, was not otherwise a day that history records. There was nothing remarkable in the event which, all that morning, had set the bells of Paris and her dwellers so astir. It was no invasion from Picardy or Burgundy, no solemn procession of relics to a shrine, no revolt of scholars from the vineyards of Laas, no entrance of our most dread lord the king, no fine hanging of thieves at the Palace of Justice. Nor was it the sudden arrival, so frequent in those days, of some ambassador, richly brocaded and beplumed. It had been two days since the last such parade -- that of the Flemish ambassadors tasked with confirming the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders -- had made its way to Paris, to the great annoyance of the cardinal of Bourbon, who, to please the king, had had to welcome this bumpkin lot of Flemish worthies to his estate and there regale them with mummeries and farces, as all the while a driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries at his door.
What happened to the beginning of this unabridged story!? For 300 pages, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame was scribed like a meandering storyline over a checkerboard, each square representing a chapter of the book. The few squares scribed directly by the line told fleeting, but essential parts of the story (about Quasimodo, Esmeralda, and Frollo). The more numerous squares adjacent to the scribed storyline told even less essential bits of the story. And, the majority of squares, several dozen chapters, were far removed from the storyline, and had almost nothing to do with the concluding thrust of action in the book. It's not that the story dawdled; its just that most chapters were simply irrevelant to the main characters for the greater part of 300 pages.I'm not declaring that the writing was no good. On the contrary, as you'll see below, the writing was detailed and powerful, and I record several favorite examples. This is my first encounter with Victor Hugo's literature, and the sweep of his writing clearly indicates that he is a master polyhistor. However, even after concluding the book, I felt that several dozen chapters--most at the beginning, but even some near the end--were completely unnecessary. That's a cocky, absurd statement from someone who can't write like Victor Hugo, but in this case it leads me to understand why there are several hundred versions of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and why most of those versions are abridged. In fact many versions are children's picture books, which capture the essential story, and excise chapters of the checkerboard that don't relate to the main three protagonists.I understand that Hugo had to provide deep background for the story. It was essential to describe Notre-Dame and important for the reader to understand the life and times of late-medeival Paris. It's important to envision the environment and atmosphere in which the action takes place. It's critical to see the characters' early actions to translate and understand the profundity of their actions later. Yes, this all makes sense. In fulfilling this background, however, Hugo spent the greater part of 300 pages following a minor character, Gringiore. Gringiore did not serve as a foil, or a fulcrum, or a window into the main characters. No, he's a bit character whose importance actually declines toward the end. We have tantalizingly few descriptions about, and even less spoken words from, the key players.I do enjoy classics--the timing it takes to develop; the word choice, the author's methodology; the subtlety, metaphor, and symbology that requires numerous re-readings to truly appreciate; the transcendence of the author's message or lesson. The last third of this book is the real classic. Oh, how I wish Hugo had focused early on Quasimodo, Frollo, and La Esmeralda, and never let go. These characters are fertile, anomolous, and peculiar enough for all the chapters of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.There are some incredibly turbocharged chapters, some of which were written akin to tragic Romantic soliloquies. Particularly:- Book V, Ch II when Hugo rants about about how the written word has usurped architecture- Book VIII, Ch IV when Frollo declares his love- Book X, Ch I when Esmeralda meets her mother, and the mob attacks Notre-Dame There are other problems I had with the book, though. The translator provided 20 pages of footnotes. Footnotes usually provide key information for understanding deep background. These footnotes, however, often called attention to Hugo's repeated misuse of Spanish and Italian. They also provided reference or explanation for things that were obscure, not exceptionally pertinent, and that didn't help backstage the story (for example, telling the real name of a building that doesn't actually exist anymore, legal cannon from the twelfth century, and what isolated Parisian neighborhoods used to be called before they disappeared to history). The notes, overwhelmingly, are simple translations of Latin, without explanation of why or to what purpose Hugo was using a particular Latin phrase. This is wholly my own prejudice, I know, but I fear that over time, Hugo's footnotes will become more and more obscure without better translation. Similar to how I feel about John Updike's writing. Several hundred years from now, readers will miss the awesome amount of reference that Updike makes to current cultural idiosycrasies and Americana, and will eventually require several hundred footnotes per book. I also had a small problem with Hugo refering to us as 'the reader.' At one point he actually refers to 'this book' that he's writing. It just seemed to make the discourse between author and reader a bit too chatty. And, just too much Latin. I would have preferred the translator insert English into the body of the text, while providing footnotes that displayed and explained the author's original Latin. I read every footnote, and felt that it was too much. New words: escutcheon, breviary, pudendum, orpiment, woadQuotes: - "Oh how hollow science sounds when you dash against it in despair a head filled with passions." (p. 329)- "Grief like this never grows old. For a mother who has lost her child, it is always the first day. This pain never ages. It is useless that the colors of mourning fade. The heart remains black as ever." (p.338)- "Nobody had noticed in the gallery of the royal statues, immediately above the pointed arches of the entrance, a strange-looking spectator, who had till then been watching everything impassively, head so outstretched, visage so deformed that, except for his apparel, half red and half purple, he might have been taken for one of those stone monsters out or whose mouths the long gutters of the cathedral have for these six hundred years disgorged themselves." (p. 354)- "He ran through the fields until nightfall. This flight from nature, from life, from himself, from man, from God, from everything, lasted till evening. Sometimes he threw himself on his face on the earth and tore up the young corn with his fingers; at other moments he paused in some lone village street, and his thoughts were so unbearable that he grasped his head with both hands and tried to wrench it from his shoulders in order to dash it against the ground." (p. 360)- "The night was cold. The sky was covered with clouds, the large white masses of which, overlapping each other at the edges and being compressed at the corners, resembled the ice of a river that has broken up in winter. The crescent moon, embedded in those clouds, looked like a celestial ship surrounded by aerial sheets of ice." (p. 367)- "The round room was very spacious, but the tables were crammed so close together, and the customers so numerous, that all the contents of the tavern, men and women, benches and beer jugs, those who were drinking, those who were sleeping, those who were gambling, the able-bodied and the cripple, seemed to be tumbled together chaotically, with just as much order and harmony as a pile of oyster shells." (p. 407)
What do You think about The Hunchback Of Notre-Dame (2001)?
"Man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart." This has created a theme that stories have focussed on for centuries. It is one that we try to teach different ways with more unique characters.When one first reads a synopsis of "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame", they would easily assume they will be reading another author's method of bringing this theme into their story. However, very shortly into the novel one finds that Quasimodo is not orginally this fully rejected outcast for his appearance. At the beginning of the novel he is actually being praised by a large crowd. His rejection comes as different incidences are misinterpreted and people begin to make the wrong assumptions.As the story continues on this happens to more characters than only Quasimodo. And other characters make mistakes by acting too quickly. It turns out that this story is about making the wrong judgements based on appearences. Only, it's not about the appearences of the characters, it's about the appearences of what is happening around our characters.When I noticed this, I realized that the whole book turned out to be about ignorance (the ignorance of the characters in what they were doing and the assumptions they made). If any of the characters would stop and figure out what had truly been happening, things would have been solved, but everytime this was a possibility they would make a new assumption and the problems would escalate. To me, the most stunning aspect of this was that the consequences did not only take effect on those that had been ignorant.In the same way, the end of the novel was only that upsetting if we remain ignorant of the fact that everything is finally brought to a close and those characters we care most about wanted something they could only come closest to through the way the novel ended (Hugo knew what he was doing in the titles of the chapters). Though it may be one of the most disturbing novels I've read, it has also taken it's place among my top ten favorites.
—Joe
We start above Paris in 1482 and then zero in on the Palais de Justice, through the windows, into an unruly mob of students, over the failure of a play, and finally come to rest on the glaring eye of Quasimodo, framed with Victor Hugo's incomparable sense of drama.From then on, the action is gripping. The reverse Frankenstein Quasimodo is the soul of the book. (Well, Notre Dame itself is the soul, but Quasimodo is its homunculus. Scenes of him crawling all over the facade of the church are the book's best visuals.) The damned Archdeacon Claude Frollo is the most dastardly monk since The Monk. The beautiful moron Esmeralda is the most in distress of all damsels. This is the only book I know of that can give the great Wuthering Heights a run for its money in terms of sheer melodramatic spectacle. There's no emotion too intense for Victor Hugo.Gripping the action is, but not relentless. Hugo has the greatest zoom lens in literature, as in that virtuoso opening, and he'll zoom back out several times. Sometimes the zoom happens abruptly, interrupting the action. Toward the end, right in the middle of a battle scene as good as his famous Barricades fight from Les Misérables, he switches to a lengthy discussion of state finances; I see what he's up to, but it's maddening.Only Hugo can give you a perfect birds-eye view of Middle Ages Paris; only he can map its sewer system, as he does - also famously, but less loved - in Les Misérables. That's wonderful, but best read on a plane when you can't be distracted by the urge to check your email. He requires your patience. The entire Book Five of Notre-Dame de Paris, added for the second edition (he's lying about "losing" it), is brutal; skim the first chapter, but when you get to "This Will Kill That" and your eyes start glazing over, you can skip the rest. It's hella repetitive. The point is that the printing press will kill the building, because we can now communicate permanently and more cheaply via books. Fine.The word ANAKH, carved into the wall of Notre-Dame, hangs over the book. It means fate, necessity, force. It carries an aura of doom - torture is among its meanings. There's hardly a moment here when someone (usually Esmeralda) isn't about to be hanged. Torture is a constant presence. ANAKH is a wonderfully Romantic word, and this is a Romantic book, with all the high intensity - and disregard for reality - that Romantic books bring with them. They aren't supposed to reflect real life. They're fables. You have to surrender to them, or you won't like them. I surrender.Les Misérables is Hugo's masterpiece, but Notre-Dame de Paris (classy people call it that, not its Anglified title Hunchback of Notre-Dame, which Hugo was infuriated by) is much shorter - 600 pages to Les Mis's 1400+ - so it might be a good starter Hugo.Edition NotesI read a translation by Krailsheimer for Oxford World's Classics, after some research; I thought it was terrific. The intro is shit though - a plodding runthrough of the entire plot, like a ninth-grade book report, and a failed attempt to claim that the important part is the slow stuff, because Hugo's developing themes or whatever. That's bullshit. The important part is Quasimodo leaping around, and any attempt to prove otherwise is the work of a person who has forgotten how to enjoy a book.
—Alex
How I'm sorry I didn't read it after being in Paris. I would still have the it fresh in my mind even if 1482 Paris is a very different city from the one we're able to enjoy today. But in this book Victor Hugo takes us by the hand and show us that city and its incredible buildings, mainly Notre Dame (which actually left me in love with it when I went there, is just gorgeous and the view is breath taking).The book is a bit slow, very descriptive, but once the story picks up and you see Fate unraveling, Destiny becomes something tangible and you can't turn away your gaze. And it's like watching a train wreck.I loved the characters, how each one was able of such different types of love for the same person and how that love in some ways consumed them. How love seems so similar to desire, how liking beautiful things is in a way superfluous and maybe confused with love. And the ending... It reminded me of The Phantom of the Opera. Seems like Paris has a great deal of disfigured characters that haunt buildings and are in love with beautiful girls. :P~*~Ah, pegar em clássicos... é sempre algo que mete algum respeito, mesmo que já tenhamos lido o que é considerado a obra maior do seu autor. Mas mergulhar num novo título, para nós, é sempre algo que merece pelo menos alguma reflexão, afinal vamos dar um salto no tempo, ver como as coisas eram há uns séculos atrás...Nesta obra de 1831 até acabamos por ir mais longe e visitamos a Paris de 1482, que hoje é praticamente irreconhecível, no entanto, o autor leva-nos pela mão numa visita guiada e mostra-nos aquela cidade, com os seus impressionantes edifícios como Notre Dame. A sua descrição é belíssima e alguns dos seus comentários chegam a ser engraçados. Perante tudo isto, tive apenas alguma pena por não ter lido o livro assim que voltei de visitar aquela cidade. Era o meu plano em 2011, mas outros livros meteram-se no caminho. Claro que, como disse, a cidade retratada seria irreconhecível mas de certa forma talvez fosse mais fácil situar onde se passa alguma da acção, embora a descrição seja o suficiente para, se não trazer à memória a cidade visitada, pelo menos ter a sensação de que se passeia por aquela que ficou perdida no tempo.A história desenrola-se lentamente mas assim que ganha ritmo temos a noção de que o fado e o destino se tornam inescapáveis. Não há como evitar o que se vai suceder e simplesmente não dá para desviar o olhar ou a atenção da página que viramos com a esperança de que não acabe como tememos.As personagens, como a cidade e a história, também cativam. É interessante ver como cada uma ama de forma completamente diferente de outra e como o amor consome cada um. Gudule ama o que há muito perdeu; Esmeralda enamora-se por alguém bonito mas supérfluo; Febo usa a confusão que existe entre amor e desejo em seu proveito; Frollo ama de forma doentia; Quasimodo simplesmente ama. De certa forma traz a lume o mesmo tema que O Fantasma da Ópera e, como aquele, fá-lo de forma excelente. Também o seu final acaba por ser algo semelhante, de partir o coração e digno para a história.Parece que Paris tem bastantes personagens desfiguradas, e não só em termos de beleza exterior, a assombrar edifícios e perdidamente apaixonados por raparigas bonitas, ainda que não correspondidos. Por mim, não me importa que assim seja se continuarem a suscitar livros como estes...
—Whitelady3
