Count of Monte Cristo
Sep. 20th, 2010 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marinessI'm about to start my annual (at least) reread of The Count of Monte Cristo.
Now, I reread a lot – often to the point of memorization, to where my mind is just reviewing words I already know, taking comfort in their familiarity. Oddly enough, very few scenes in the Count of Monte Cristo have ever reached that memorization point (the scene where Abbe Faria reveals the truth to Edmond Dantes, the overly dramatic scene where Mercedes begs the count for her son's life, the astonishing scene where the Count has everyone over for dinner and a chat about a dead baby in a garden, the scene where Eugenie Danglars finally decides that she's absolutely had it with France and men, and possibly a few others) possibly because I've read a few different translations, so it's not precisely the same reading experience each time. Or possibly something else.
But anyway.
Why a book about some generally despicable social climbers in post Napoleonic France has this sort of fascination for me is perhaps a bit harder to explain. The Count of Monte Cristo is, of course, a kind of ultimate revenge fantasy: not only does Dantes become far, far wealthier and more successful than his rivals, but also he gets to watch them suffer – destroyed by their own hubris. It's the great satisfaction of watching people actually get the bad karma they've earned. And, once past the improbably staggering wealth and the equally improbable situation that nearly all of Dantes' enemies just happened to end up in prominent, shakily wealthy positions in Paris years later (this makes some sense with the ambitious Danglars and the well-connected Villefort, but I must admit that the rise of the fisherman Fernand Mondego to the nobility is a little….how shall I say this? Fishy?
(Er. Forgive me.)
Although at that, Mondego does serve to illustrate one point of the novel: this is a picture of a society under great tension and flux, with a desperate ancien regime still trying to restore and cling to its wealth and power against those that used the Revolution, Napoleon and the aftermath to flourish. It's an age still working with the newness of rapid communications – manipulating telegraph messages becomes a major plot point, and I sense that Dantes could have had a successful career today as a hedge fund manager. (Maybe we could hire him and sic him on Wall Street executives. Now THERE'S an important revenge. But I digress.) For a revenge book, the novel is remarkably filled with sharp observations and critiques of social situations.
But then again, this is the novel with everything: pirates, Mob guys, duels, lesbians, revenge, a few pairs of young lovers, courtroom dramas, infanticides, runaway horses, stock manipulations, murder, adultery, wildly improbable wealth and delightfully chilled eels. If for some reason, you haven't yet read it, you must, with the caveat that the full version does contain an odd and rather lengthy scene smack dab between the Chateau d'If bits and the Italian mob bits, but once the narrative joins the mob, it never lets go. I love this book.
Excuse me while I go get lost in it again.
Now, I reread a lot – often to the point of memorization, to where my mind is just reviewing words I already know, taking comfort in their familiarity. Oddly enough, very few scenes in the Count of Monte Cristo have ever reached that memorization point (the scene where Abbe Faria reveals the truth to Edmond Dantes, the overly dramatic scene where Mercedes begs the count for her son's life, the astonishing scene where the Count has everyone over for dinner and a chat about a dead baby in a garden, the scene where Eugenie Danglars finally decides that she's absolutely had it with France and men, and possibly a few others) possibly because I've read a few different translations, so it's not precisely the same reading experience each time. Or possibly something else.
But anyway.
Why a book about some generally despicable social climbers in post Napoleonic France has this sort of fascination for me is perhaps a bit harder to explain. The Count of Monte Cristo is, of course, a kind of ultimate revenge fantasy: not only does Dantes become far, far wealthier and more successful than his rivals, but also he gets to watch them suffer – destroyed by their own hubris. It's the great satisfaction of watching people actually get the bad karma they've earned. And, once past the improbably staggering wealth and the equally improbable situation that nearly all of Dantes' enemies just happened to end up in prominent, shakily wealthy positions in Paris years later (this makes some sense with the ambitious Danglars and the well-connected Villefort, but I must admit that the rise of the fisherman Fernand Mondego to the nobility is a little….how shall I say this? Fishy?
(Er. Forgive me.)
Although at that, Mondego does serve to illustrate one point of the novel: this is a picture of a society under great tension and flux, with a desperate ancien regime still trying to restore and cling to its wealth and power against those that used the Revolution, Napoleon and the aftermath to flourish. It's an age still working with the newness of rapid communications – manipulating telegraph messages becomes a major plot point, and I sense that Dantes could have had a successful career today as a hedge fund manager. (Maybe we could hire him and sic him on Wall Street executives. Now THERE'S an important revenge. But I digress.) For a revenge book, the novel is remarkably filled with sharp observations and critiques of social situations.
But then again, this is the novel with everything: pirates, Mob guys, duels, lesbians, revenge, a few pairs of young lovers, courtroom dramas, infanticides, runaway horses, stock manipulations, murder, adultery, wildly improbable wealth and delightfully chilled eels. If for some reason, you haven't yet read it, you must, with the caveat that the full version does contain an odd and rather lengthy scene smack dab between the Chateau d'If bits and the Italian mob bits, but once the narrative joins the mob, it never lets go. I love this book.
Excuse me while I go get lost in it again.