Victor Hugo on Love

Upon reading the title of this blog, one may assume that it will cover the story of Cosette and Marius, which is the central love story in the second half of the novel. Maybe it will be about Éponine’s unrequited love for Marius throughout Marius’s pursuit of Cosette. One may think of Fantine and her endless love for her daughter Cosette, and the sad and tragic end to her story. It could cover Jean Valjean, a man who never truly experienced love until he raised Cosette as essentially his daughter. These are many of the things we think of when we think of Les Misérables and stories of love. However, this blog will be centered around one small, tender moment from early on in the novel that could easily be forgotten after absorbing 1300 pages of the grand, epic story of Les Misérables.

My personal favorite part of Les Misérables, the one page that has stuck in my mind the most after reading the novel, was the description of Monsieur Myriel, or “Monseigneur Bienvenu”, the bishop of Digne’s last few years of life before his passing. This comes from Chapter Four, Book Five, Part One. The chapter revealed that Monsieur Myriel had died at the age of eighty-two, while Jean Valjean was creating his new life as “Pere Madeleine” in Montreuil-sur-Mer. It also revealed that Monsieur Myriel was blind in his last few years of life. Hugo describes him as having been “contentedly blind”, as he had the company of his sister. What follows is an incredible beautiful description of love, of how Monsieur Myriel’s reliance on his sister, and in turn her reliance on Monsieur Myriel, showed how much love they had for each other, that although he had lost his sight, Monsieur Myriel did not truly lose anything because he could feel the love of his sister through her presence and her actions.

“Incidentally, let us say that on this earth where nothing is perfect, to be blind and to be loved is in fact one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness.”

— Victor Hugo

Hugo writes expertly and profoundly on the weight and power of love and of feeling loved, how it prevails over any negative circumstance or physical affliction. Despite his deteriorating physical condition and the loss of one of his five senses, Monsieur Myriel is described as being at his happiest, at his most content, at complete peace, because he knew he was loved. Of all of Hugo’s descriptions of love throughout the many pages of this novel, nothing was quite as touching and affecting as this one very short description of the end of Monsieur Myriel’s life.

Throughout the four weeks we spent in London and Paris, my mind kept coming back to this passage. In particular, I thought of this moment a lot during week one of the class, which we spent in London. I was feeling more homesick than I would have liked to admit, and I found myself missing family and friends much more than I expected to.

Throughout our explorations of London and Paris, every time we experienced something new, I thought of the people in my life who would have loved those experiences, and thought of how great it would be to be there again with them. As we walked through Borough Market in London, I thought of my foodiest friends who would have loved trying all of the different food stalls with me, and of my family who influenced me to love food more than almost anything. As we watched the stage production of Les Misérables, I thought of my friends who love musical theater, and how excited they would have been to sit with me and enjoy the show. As I walked into a new random bakery in Paris nearly every day, I thought of a friend who loves baking and trying new baked goods who would have appreciated the boulangeries even more than I did. As I walked through The Louvre, I thought of a friend with a passion for art history who would have had a greater level of appreciation and understanding for the endless walls of art than I ever could.

During these experiences and all of these thoughts and reminders of people in my life, I kept coming back to this passage about Monsieur Myriel. I realized that with every new experience I had that made me think of someone new, I felt their love with me, even though I couldn’t see them. I realized what a privilege it is to miss people. There’s a certain magic to walking through two new countries and having nearly every new experience remind me of someone who would love it even more than I would, and make me want to come back with them. More than a source of sadness or homesickness, I realized that thinking of people elevated these experiences for me, and made them all the more special.

“The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that you are loved, loved for yourself, better still, loved despite yourself”

— Victor Hugo

A City of Stories

Paris refuses to be experienced in one dimension. Every day here feels like stepping into another chapter of history, sometimes illuminated by sunlight on the Seine or hidden in the damp shadows beneath the streets. My trip has been a steady layering of moments: wandering through museums, visiting the opera house, eating delicious food, and exploring places that hold centuries of memory. This layered history and sacrifice mirror the complex social struggles and resilience depicted in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables—a city where past and present conversations about injustice, identity, and humanity converge.

Paul Sérusier’s painting L’Averse at Musée d’Orsay

At the Musée d’Orsay, surrounded by Impressionist light and the grand sweep of 19th-century art, I was drawn to a quieter piece, a painting of a nun holding an umbrella over her head. It wasn’t a scene of grandeur or public ceremony, just a moment of her everyday life. Yet something about it stayed with me. The umbrella seemed like a small shield against the world, a fragile defense in a life defined by service. I thought about the sacrifices nuns make when dedicating their lives to the church. Whether it be giving up personal freedom, family, or other dreams they left behind.

Though I didn’t visit a convent during my trip, the painting brought to mind the role convents play in Les Misérables. In the novel, the convent offers Valjean and Cosette a quiet sanctuary from violence and chaos. But it is also a place defined by strict structure and restraint. Its walls impose rules and routines that contain its inhabitants within a particular order and silence. This tension between sanctuary and confinement is powerful: a place that protects, but also restricts, shaping safety with limits on freedom and movement.

This duality echoes a larger theme in Les Misérables—the costs and contradictions of seeking refuge. Protection often demands sacrifice, and safety can mean isolation. The painting felt like a visual reminder of this balance and how places designed to shield us can also enclose us. It deepened my understanding of Hugo’s portrayal of sanctuary not as escape from hardship, but as a space where the fight for freedom continues quietly within boundaries.

Doll in a Victorian dress symbolizing South African apartheid, featured in the Soweto ballet, displayed at the Opera.

A few nights later, I visited the Paris Opera. The building itself was grand and lavish, a spectacle that transports visitors far beyond the everyday. Yet amid the opulence, my attention kept returning to one striking costume on display: an elaborate gown on a doll inspired by apartheid-era fashion, reimagined for the stage. The doll’s Victorian dress symbolizes South African apartheid by reflecting how colonial-era European fashion was imposed as a marker of power, control, and racial hierarchy. The heavy history embedded in the gown’s design made me pause and reflect on who is allowed to wear beauty, and under what circumstances.

As I wandered the grand halls, the gown’s powerful symbolism brought to mind Les Misérables and its profound exploration of social injustice, oppression, and the struggle for dignity. Just as this choreography interpreted the conflict in human terms, highlighting the inhumanity of South Africa’s white regime and the people’s strength and resistance expressed through group dances, Hugo’s novel reveals the lives of marginalized people confined by rigid social hierarchies. Both the gown and the novel remind us that beauty, identity, and survival are often shaped by forces beyond individual control—and that resistance can take many forms, whether on the barricades of 19th-century Paris or through cultural expression confronting apartheid’s legacy.

One of my quietest moments in Paris was walking the path of Javert’s final moments in Les Misérables. In the novel, Javert’s solitary walk toward the Seine is laden with inner turmoil; today, the setting is serene. People stroll in pairs, and friends sit along the embankment as light fades. There is a sense of community in a place Hugo painted as lonely. It made me reflect on how places absorb and outlive the stories told about them. The same stretch of riverbank can hold both tragedy and joy, depending on who walks there and when.

Strip along the Seine where Javert had his last moments

Paris is full of layered complexities. In one afternoon, you can stand in a sunlit square and then descend into the darkness of the Catacombs. That was one of the most humbling experiences of my trip. I expected eeriness—and found it—but even more, I felt the vastness. Endless walls of bones stacked neatly, each skull and femur a silent story. It was hard to grasp the weight of history surrounding me, countless lives folded into this space. The arrangement is orderly, yet the reality it represents is messy: centuries of disease, poverty, overpopulation, and the practical need to move the dead from crowded cemeteries. History often hides its most sobering truths out of sight.

The Catacombs were not my only somber stop. At Montparnasse Cemetery, I visited the tomb of Simone de Beauvoir. The grave itself is simple, but flowers and notes left by visitors make it feel alive. Standing there, I thought about how de Beauvoir’s voice still resonates—how fiercely she challenged oppression, and how surely she would have condemned the injustices faced by characters like Fantine. Fantine’s descent into prostitution is not just personal tragedy; it is a social failure and the result of systems that punish women for vulnerabilities they did not choose. I could almost imagine de Beauvoir writing an essay on Fantine, placing her alongside overlooked women of history.

Tomb of Simone de Beauvoir at Montparnasse Cemetery

These moments—in museums, opera houses, along the river, or underground—shaped my experience of Paris into something richer than a checklist of sights. The city feels like a living novel, its chapters scattered across neighborhoods, each telling a unique story. Some are quiet, like the nun’s umbrella. Some are grand, like the opera’s gilded balconies. Some devastating, like the Catacombs. And some quietly defiant, like Simone de Beauvoir’s grave, holding steady against time.

Walking through Paris, I noticed how art, history, and daily life blur into one another. One minute, you can be looking at a centuries-old painting; the next, sipping coffee by the Seine. You can stand where Hugo described scenes in Les Misérables and realize that while the city has changed, the human struggles he wrote about—poverty, injustice, resilience—still find reflections here.

As my trip comes to a close, I keep returning to the idea of sacrifice. Whether the sacrifice of nuns at the convent, the lives lost in the Catacombs, or the fictional sacrifices of characters like Fantine, who gives up everything for her child—these sacrifices carry weight. But Paris has also shown me the flip side: community, beauty, and the ways people protect one another. If Hugo’s Paris was a city of shadows and barricades, today’s Paris is a city of layers. It holds space for joy and grief, for memory and reinvention. And as I pack my bags, I am grateful to have stepped into so many of its chapters, knowing each will follow me long after I leave.

Stepping Into the Author’s Life

Statue depicting the iconic image of Cosette carrying the water bucket

In Paris, the class went to the “Maison de Victor Hugo”, or the Victor Hugo house. This is a museum located in the house that Victor Hugo lived in from 1832-1848, shortly before he was exiled from France. Walking through the museum led us through several recreations of what the rooms of his apartment would have likely looked like, and the walls were completely filled with mostly paintings that depicted Hugo’s works throughout the years that were made by other artists, but also some paintings by artists Hugo admired and some pieces of art that were made by Hugo himself.

I mentioned in one of my earlier blog posts that the class had gone to the Charles Dickens Museum while we were in London. This is a very similar museum, a recreation of one of Charles Dickens’s homes, in a house he used to live in, filled with items related to him. As you may recall, I didn’t have many great things to say about that experience. It felt almost violating in a way. The museum was filled with not just items related to Dickens’s works throughout his life, and they were not just recreations of the rooms he used to live in that gave us an insight into how he lived and what he was interested in while he was writing his many famous novels. Instead, the Charles Dickens Museum was filled to the brim with deeply personal items and insights into the less flattering parts of Dickens’s personal life. In the recreation of his dressing and personal grooming room, there was a collection of items like razors, combs, etc., and there was a locket with a real strand of Dickens’s hair on display. In other rooms, there were letters he had written and received on display regarding his divorce, his relationships, his affairs. I’m sure a historian, or someone with an extreme interest in Dickens, would read all of this and think that the Dickens house is a goldmine for interesting exhibits, and not understand my uncomfortability with the whole thing. But to me, the Charles Dickens Museum felt like I was looking at a lot of things that I wasn’t meant to see.

By contrast, the Victor Hugo house didn’t feel like that at all. It’s strange, since the museum is essentially an identical concept to the Charles Dickens Museum, but I didn’t feel any of the same uncomfortability with it that I did with Dickens’s house. To me, the Victor Hugo house felt like it was more specifically focused on Hugo’s works and the interests and tastes that influenced them, rather than the nitty gritty of his personal life and affairs. As I mentioned before, the walls were lined with works by many artists depicting scenes from novels Hugo had written. There were plenty of paintings depicting The Toilers of the Sea, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and most famously and relevant to this class, Les Misérables. There were tons of depictions of Jean Valjean’s plight, along with depictions of characters like Marius and Cosette. Of these works, the painting that stood out the most to me was one that depicted one of my favorite scenes from Les Misérables, the moment when Jean Valjean turns himself in and reveals his true identity in court. It was interesting to see moments like these from the novel depicted by skillful painters in this medium, as it gave a visual representation of significant scenes from the novels that was not held back by the limitations of a film or a stage show, they were depictions of moments from the novel exactly as the artists pictured them.

Jean Valjean revealing his identity to the court

The pieces of art that didn’t depict scenes from Hugo’s novels were generally pieces that Hugo had owned which were created by artists he enjoyed. This gave us a more personal glimpse into Hugo’s tastes and the artists that would have influenced him, as well as his psyche when writing his novels. There were some quite dark and disturbing paintings on some of these walls that showed some insight into Hugo’s interesting taste and where his mind could have been in different parts of his life. Still though, in contrast to Dickens’s house, these displays felt focused on a celebration and depiction of the art Hugo enjoyed that influenced his works.

All of these pieces of art centered around Hugo’s works made the museum feel less like an uncomfortable look into Hugo’s private life, and more like a celebration of the famous and influential works he created during his life. This is the main distinction between the Victor Hugo House and the Charles Dickens Museum, at least in my mind. The Hugo House feels like it was created with fans of Hugo’s work in mind, and it feels like a museum that Hugo would have approved of and wanted people to visit if he were alive. The focus was on his works, and most of the more personal parts of the museum were shown not to shine light on Hugo’s personal affairs, but to show how his life influenced the way he wrote. The Dickens House, on the other hand, felt like it focused in far too closely on the small, personal details of Dickens’s life, and it was filled with things Dickens probably would not have wanted displayed to the public. At least, if I were him I wouldn’t want them displayed.

There is one large elephant in the room as I write about how there is nothing too personal in the Victor Hugo Museum. That is, of course, the recreation of the bedroom that Victor Hugo died in. Hugo did not die in the home in which the museum lies, but there is a faithful recreation of the bedroom he died in, which is the last room in the museum. Somehow, although this is of course a deeply personal view into Hugo’s final moments, it felt very tastefully done, and it was quite touching to stand in that room. On the wall, there were some paintings of the room and of Hugo’s final moments, showing that shortly after he died these moments were shown to the public, which made it feel tasteful as the look of his room in his final moments was always on public display, it was not something that was uncovered for this museum. It felt like a very tastefully done, respectful end to the exhibit, an exhibit that showed how Hugo may have lived, celebrated his works, displayed his artistic influences, and handled the more personal aspects of Hugo’s life with respect and care.

Recreation of the bedroom Hugo died in

The Future They Fight For

France’s streets sing with the echoes of history.

Just a single ceiling in the Palace of Versailles

When our class visits Versailles, it feels like stepping back in time. Every room is furnished with lavish luxuries, including magnificent chandeliers and marble columns; at every turn, we walk through doorways dripping with gold. If I were a peasant in eighteenth-century France, I would’ve probably fallen at the feet of the “jewels and silks and powder and splendour” of the King, Queen, and their Court. Like A Tale of Two Cities’ mender of roads, I would’ve been overwhelmed by their incredible elegance and glamor, yelling “Long live the King!” in unrestrained awe.

In the Place de La Bastille, metal markers outline the shape of the old fortress. It’s smaller than I thought it would be - in paintings, it seems like a hulking mass looming over the city from a distance. In person, I suddenly understand how crowds could’ve rushed at the royal fortress and dismantled it brick by brick. I realize how their riotous anger would’ve caught on like wildfire, creating a “remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering,” just as Dickens describes in his novel.

Nowhere is the cry of history as strong as in the Place de la Révolution, the former site of the guillotine. On the day that we visit it, the sky is achingly bright. I imagine the condemned squinting in the sun as they mount the scaffold, surrounded by a tumultuous crowd. I think of Sydney Carton and the untold numbers of men like him, good people killed by the bloodthirsty Revolution.

How do we honor this storied past?

An outline of the old royal fortress at the Place de la Bastille

First, we remember history’s participants. We focus on the humanity of both sides - by reading texts like A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables, we understand how appalling social conditions sparked the people’s well-founded anger, whether it was the revolutionaries of 1789 or the insurgents of the 1832 barricade. Yet Darnay’s story in A Tale of Two Cities also creates sympathy for those aristocrats whose only crime was a tie to the Second Estate. When we stand where Lucie did so that Darnay could see his wife from prison, faithfully waiting there no matter the day or the weather, we see the cruelty of the couple’s separation. By acknowledging that there is no side in history that was absolutely right, we are better able to understand the stories of our predecessors.

We must also honor those who history often forgets. At the Musée Carnavalet, I learned how women were an active part of the revolutionary dynamic despite being left out of most revolutionary iconography. According to historian Clyde Plumauzille, women played the role of “firebrands,” triggering riots during shortages, and even took part in Assembly debates from the gallery. At the Conciergerie, our class was introduced to figures like Olympe de Gouges, who wrote the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Female Citizen in response to 1789’s Declaration of the Rights of Man. Even women like Lucie Manette, a character often dismissed as people-pleasing and passive, held whole families together. At the trial to determine her husband’s fate, Lucie gives Charles Darnay an expression “so sustaining, so encouraging… so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face.” I love this image because it highlights Lucie’s quiet strength in the face of unspeakable horror. It’s easy to write off women like her as aimless bystanders, but they, too, shaped the dynamic of history.

Yet our Lucies and Cosettes also remind us of the future these revolutionaries fought for. In both A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables, the protagonists’ visions of the future were not about who won or lost. They weren’t about a total overthrow of societal order or the extinction of an entire class. At the foot of the scaffold, Sydney sees “the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy… I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence.” This beautiful image is humble and personal. It isn’t grand - Sydney doesn’t try to save the whole of France - but it envisions a family that no longer lives in fear. The future Sydney sacrifices himself for is one of humility and tranquility, of quiet joy and hopeful strength. On her wedding day, Cosette realizes that her “sorrows, sleeplessness, tears, anguish, terrors, despair… were making yet more blissful the coming moments of bliss.” Maybe this is the whole point: maybe people fight so that past sufferings can lead to present satisfaction. They fight for Lucie, happy with her husband and children, and Cosette, content in Marius' arms.

Even Enjolras, in his grandiose speech at the barricade, speaks of this forthcoming joy:

“Light! Light! Everything comes from light, and returns to it. Citizens, the nineteenth century is a great century, but the twentieth century will be a happy one. Nothing like the history of old - not any more. There’ll be no reason then to fear.... Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we go to a grave pervaded through and through by the light of dawn.”

— Enjolras

If Hugo and Dickens were to bookpack with us, accompanying our class to the sites that they described in their novels, I think they’d be pleased. Imagine their joy to see children playing at the site of the old Bastille, totally unaware of the bloody chaos that once took place. Imagine how wonderful it would be to watch happy crowds at the cafe in Les Halles where the barricade once stood. Wouldn’t Hugo be so bemused to see people now shuffling through the sewer museum and buying sewer rat soft toys as souvenirs? 

The future is still imperfect. Dickens’ opening line - “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” - is absolutely true today. As we’ve explored London and Paris through history’s eyes, it’s been such a gift to realize how far this world has come, while also acknowledging the work we still need to do. It’s been an even greater privilege to discuss these topics alongside nine people who have been endlessly open, thoughtful, and kind. As I see families picnicking at the Champ de Mars and couples strolling quietly along the banks of the Seine, I know the future I fight for.

I hope we all do.

A final sunset along the Seine.

Echoes of Her Strength

The Louvre is overwhelming in the best possible way. No matter how carefully you plan your visit, you inevitably get lost in its endless halls, drifting between centuries and continents as if time itself has loosened its grip. The museum demands that you slow down, not just because of its vast size, but because so many pieces ask for more than a glance. They ask you to think. To connect. To question.

One painting that stopped me in my tracks was Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People. The canvas is alive with motion bodies surging forward, smoke curling through the air, a woman striding at the center holding the French flag high. Liberty herself is a paradox: at once an allegorical figure and a flesh-and-blood woman. Her bare breast is impossible to ignore, and while I understand why some may find it unsettling or even exploitative, to me it feels nuanced—both vulnerable and powerful at once. It communicates something raw and symbolic, with purity and defiance intertwined. In that moment, Liberty read to me as a “pure, edgy woman,” unashamed of her body, charging into danger without hesitation. She is maternal and militant at the same time, a figure both nurturing and unyielding. Her nudity doesn’t seem to exist for the pleasure of the viewer, but as part of the message she carries: this is France, stripped of pretension, leading its people toward freedom.

Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People

The sense of nationalism in the painting is palpable. Every brushstroke pulses with the urgency of revolution. You can feel the pride, the resolve, the collective identity. For me, the painting wasn’t just about French history. It was about how visual symbols can transcend time and geography, inspiring people who may never have lived under the tricolor flag.

Coat made by designer Duro Olowu

That connection between past and present surfaced again when I came across something completely different, a coat designed by Duro Olowu. In the middle of all the classical sculpture and historic portraits, there was a piece of modern fashion that spoke the same language as the paintings around it, but with a contemporary twist. Olowu’s coat blends the elegance of eighteenth-century European style with patterns and influences drawn from his Nigerian heritage. Standing in front of it, I thought about how fashion, like art, can be an act of cultural dialogue, taking something rooted in a particular history and transforming it through another lens.

The coat reminded me that the Louvre isn’t just a collection of the past. It’s a place where conversations between eras and cultures can happen right in front of you. Seeing that coat after Liberty Leading the People felt like watching two different chapters of the same story—the struggle for self-definition, the interplay between identity and image, the blending of tradition with something bold and new.

But not every representation of the female body in the Louvre left me with the same feeling I had in front of Liberty Leading the People. During class, we discussed Gustave Courbet’s L’Origine du monde (The Origin of the World). Unlike Liberty’s symbolic nudity, Courbet’s work reduces the figure to a sexualized body part without context or narrative, unlike the empowering message of the former. This discussion brought to mind the concept of the male gaze—the idea that much of art history has been shaped by men creating for the eyes of other men, often turning women into objects rather than subjects.

It made me think about how often women in art are seen but not heard, visible yet voiceless. Even when their beauty is celebrated, the perspective can still be one that strips them of agency. In contrast, Liberty feels like she’s claiming her space. She meets the viewer’s eye, she moves, she leads. The gaze doesn’t trap her; she directs it.

This revisiting of the male gaze wasn’t something I expected to do at the Louvre, but that’s the thing about being in a place like this: art doesn’t just sit quietly on the wall. It provokes. It demands that you think about what you’re seeing and how you’re seeing it. By the time I left, I realized my visit had been less about “seeing the Louvre” and more about having a series of conversations—between myself and the art, between the past and the present, between the different ways a body can be represented. Liberty Leading the People reminded me that nudity can be a symbol of courage and solidarity. Duro Olowu’s coat reminded me that tradition can evolve, taking on new forms without losing its roots.

Art, I realized, isn’t static. It changes depending on who’s looking and on what lens they bring with them. That day, my lens was shaped by our class discussions, by the works I’d already seen, and by my awareness of how nationalism, fashion, and the female body intersect. And just like Liberty leading her people, I left feeling a little more sure of my footing, ready to keep moving forward.

This whole experience deeply reminded me of Les Misérables and its complex portrayal of women and society. Women in the novel, like Fantine and Cosette, navigate a world that often reduces them to mere objects or symbols, much like the tension I observed in these artworks. Fantine’s suffering and degradation echo the objectification and loss of agency represented in The Origin of the World, where the female body is fragmented and stripped of identity. She is forced into invisibility and dehumanization, much like the faceless figure in Courbet’s painting.

““For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.””

— Virginia Woolf

However, Hugo’s novel also offers women moments of quiet strength and revolutionary care, much like the figure of Liberty, who simultaneously embodies nurturing and defiance. Cosette’s transformation under Jean Valjean’s protection is a powerful assertion of a woman’s right to dignity and love, transcending the societal chains that bound her. She claims her place beside Valjean, walking “step for step” into a new life. This mirrors the image of Liberty, standing front and center, unapologetic and unashamed, demanding recognition and agency.

Les Misérables is deeply concerned with who gets to tell the story and whose voice is heard. Just as the Louvre’s vast collection reveals hidden histories and provokes questions about representation, Hugo’s novel elevates voices on the margins, especially those of women who must resist erasure in a patriarchal society. Both the museum and the book compel us to question dominant narratives and to recognize the power of stories told from the perspectives of those who have been silenced. Women like Fantine tragically struggle under circumstances that deny them this agency, while others like Cosette symbolize the hope for reclaiming it. Similarly, the artworks at the Louvre challenge viewers to consider how women’s identities have been shaped, distorted, or reclaimed through history and art.

In the end, my visit to the Louvre and my reading of Les Misérables converged around a shared truth: that women’s bodies and stories have too often been controlled, objectified, or erased, but that reclaiming agency through care, love, and courage is a form of quiet revolution. Whether it’s Liberty leading her people, Cosette stepping forward beside Valjean, or women throughout history reclaiming their narratives, these acts of defiance and dignity ripple across time, challenging us to see and honor the full humanity of women.

Stories of Care and Resistance

When I stepped into the Maison de Victor Hugo, I wasn’t just walking into a preserved home; I felt as if I had entered the intimate space of a man who carried entire worlds inside his head. The rooms were warm and slightly dim, the kind of lighting that makes you lower your voice instinctively. Ornate furniture, patterned wallpaper, and personal objects gave the space a lived-in quality, even though Hugo hadn’t been here in over a century. Among his bedrooms and handwritten notes, the painting of Jean Valjean walking beside young Cosette as she carried her water bucket caught my eye. The moment it captured was quiet, almost ordinary, yet pivotal in both their lives.

Painting of Jean Valjean and Cosette

In Les Misérables, Cosette’s childhood is defined by fear, deprivation, and invisibility. Under the care of the Thénardiers, she is overworked and underfed, treated more like a servant than a child. The scene in the painting, drawn from the moment Valjean meets her when she fetches water at Madame Thénardier’s demand, radiates a tenderness that feels almost miraculous in contrast. He walks beside her, step for step. That placement says everything: I am here. You are safe. Standing before it, I realized Hugo wasn’t just telling a story about revolution and justice; he was also exploring the quiet revolutions sparked by compassion, protection, and dignity. Valjean changes Cosette’s future by being the first to show her love, and she gives him a new purpose. This delicate balance of power and tenderness is what makes their relationship so compelling, a reminder that even small acts of kindness can be revolutionary in a harsh world.

““Compassion and tolerance are not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength.” ”

— Dalai Lama

Leaving the Maison de Victor Hugo, we headed to the Musée Carnavalet. The streets felt alive with history, the sounds of distant conversations, the faint scent of freshly baked bread drifting from a nearby boulangerie, and the chatter of footsteps on cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of travelers.

Inside, the museum unfolded like a labyrinth, each room brimming with paintings, artifacts, and everyday objects that told the story of Paris across centuries. Shepard Fairey’s Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité immediately caught my eye. Its bold colors and powerful message vibrated against the muted tones of the surrounding galleries, pulling me into the revolutionary spirit of Les Misérables, especially the passion of the student-led ABC group fighting the monarchy. I’d noticed this same motto engraved on buildings throughout the city, most memorably at the Palais de Justice, a reminder that liberty, equality, and fraternity remain values deeply woven into French culture.

Shepard Fairey’s Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité

But the part of the Carnavalet that truly stopped me was something I hadn’t expected: a section dedicated to Black Parisians in the nineteenth century. I was surprised, not because I didn’t know such communities existed, but because their stories are so rarely given space in major museums. The weight of that omission felt somber.

Further inside, portraits of artists and intellectuals sat alongside documents recording the lives of formerly enslaved individuals who settled in Paris. Their presence disrupted the common image of nineteenth-century Paris as entirely white, prompting me to reconsider the incomplete history I’d absorbed. One painting, Au Nègre joyeux (The Joyful Black Man), had been used to advertise food products imported from the colonies, reinforcing the stereotype of the cheerful Black servant.

I was struck by how many of these stories echoed themes from Les Misérables: migration, survival, and the fight for dignity in a society that often resisted their presence. Jean Valjean’s struggle to redefine himself after prison mirrors the battles these individuals faced to claim their place in a society that did not fully recognize them. Both are stories about navigating exclusion and injustice. Standing in that room, I thought about how history is shaped as much by what’s left out as by what’s included. For every celebrated figure we remember, countless others are lost to time, often because they didn’t fit the dominant narrative. Seeing these Black Parisians represented, however briefly, was a reminder of the gaps in collective memory and the ongoing work to fill them.

As I made my way back through the museum, I realized my visits to the Maison de Victor Hugo and the Musée Carnavalet were connected in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Hugo’s Paris in Les Misérables is a tapestry woven from voices on the margins: the poor, the criminalized, the forgotten. The Carnavalet’s glimpse into nineteenth-century Black Parisians felt like discovering another missing thread in that tapestry.

Walking back through the streets that afternoon, I felt the city’s layers pressing in on me. Paris is often romanticized as a city of lights and beauty. Still, it is also a city of hidden histories, quiet resistance, and everyday people whose lives shaped the city as much as any king or general. The same streets that echoed with Valjean’s footsteps also carried men and women living outside the center of the story, yet whose stories quietly shape the soul of Paris. As I passed small cafés and bustling markets, I thought about how the present city holds so many stories at once, stories of privilege and struggle, celebration and sorrow. It made me realize that the real revolution is the ongoing work of remembering and honoring all of these voices, not just the loudest or most powerful.

Au Nègre joyeux

Travel often promises novelty, but for me, the most rewarding moments are when the past feels suddenly close, not as a foreign country, but as a set of human experiences that still matter. Whether it’s a fictional girl finding safety with someone who loves her, or a real person carving out a life in a society that wasn’t built to welcome them, these are stories worth holding onto.

In the footsteps of Jean Valjean and Cosette, I see how simple acts of care become quiet rebellions against a world that too often forgets. I’ll remember that painting of them walking together, step for step, and I’ll think of the other pairs who must have walked these streets—fathers and daughters, friends, strangers—bound together by the simple, radical act of care. And I’ll remember that telling their stories isn’t just about honoring the past; it’s about shaping the present and imagining a future where those stories are never lost again.

Alas, poor Valjean!

The Panthéon, on 35mm

The Panthéon sits on a hill facing north, its sheer strength and grandiose size act like a guide for all who are lost. It stands as a beautiful example of uniquely Neoclassical architecture with Roman style (not to be confused with romanesque) domes and Greek appearing columns. As you step in you're greeted with its massive ceilings that make you feel small but, in some strange way, important. Inscribed above the entrance high above your head you notice the passage “Aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante,” meaning “To the great men, the grateful homeland.”

The Panthéon, on 35mm

Victor Hugo is buried just below the limestone I stand on, stuck down there with some of France’s most prominent writers and thinkers. Fitting that he should be immortalized here. Hugo gave many things to France, but to this city he gave it its lore. To really understand what Hugo wrote about you cannot simply stand in grand sun-filled domes. You need to get down below the earth, below the metro, below the sewer.

A slow and endless corkscrew of spiral stairs greets you as you enter. You can feel the temperature drop with every step as you descend, slowly departing the world of the living. The damp stale air doesn't particularly stand out until it's too late, and suddenly it has taken full control of the room that surrounds you. Endless stretches of vast tunnels shoot off in every direction. I couldn't help but imagine how at least one poor soul over the last 200 years must have gotten lost down here before slowly withering away and being completely lost to the wretched bowls of this city.

Finally, you arrive. The expansive halls of a long-gone limestone mine serve as the only buffer between the beautiful city and the empire of the dead. When you finally enter the ossuary it's jarring no matter how mentally prepared you are. Centuries of Parisianas stacked in geometric forms, reduced to no more than simple masonwork. These are the nameless poor that Hugo wrote about, the ones he had a soft spot in his heart for. These were the people that served on Valjean's chain-gang, the ones cast from society into poverty, and the ones that had died a not-so-glorious death at the barricade. In fact, there were even a few stacks of bones labeled from specific battles and uprisings from the revolution of ‘79. Some of the only people to have been buried directly into the catacombs and not exhumed from a previous location. These heroes of the city were reserved as much honor as the city could afford them at that time – one wall and a single memorial for them all.

I didn't expect the catacombs to have such a moving effect on me, but as I hinted at, there's nothing quite like them, and no way to truly prepare for it. Another subterranean place that we visited, different but just as wretched in its own way, was the Paris Sewer Museum. Indeed while these tunnels are just as jarring to the physical senses, they are a lighter weight on the mind, and actually tie directly into our novel Les Misèrables, in a substantial manner. It was these sewers of Paris that Hugo uses as the setting for Valjean’s heroic rescue of Marius. As chaos erupts above ground at the barricade, Valjean takes the opportunity to grab Marius’s unconscious body and escape to the safety of this underworld.

This is an extremely important scene, but to really understand the gravity of it you need to see the metaphor Hugo is trying to paint for us. Hugo writes his book about the poor of an indifferent system, the ‘wretched’ of the world. Although some characters are sacrificed to this system and the darkness that abounds (notably Fantine and Gavroche), the overarching story is one of redemption and ascension. It's about fighting through the all-consuming darkness with every step and emerging into the daylight.

The sewers are Hugo’s metaphor for the underworld that he so vividly unpacks throughout the novel. The grimy part of the city that nobody wants to see, or indeed even ever thinks about, but without which the city above could not survive. This sewer scene is Valjean's final redemption, the completion of his character arc from sinner to saint. Now that you know this I don't have to worry about judgment when I try to describe the grandiose sense of inspiration I felt deep within me as I stood around inspecting the walls of a stinky sewer for one of Europe's largest cities. On the surface (pun intended) these dark tunnels should not compare to the Panthéonn at all and yet, they do. Without them the Panthéon wouldn't exist at all.

We emerged from the sewer the same way I imagine our characters did, with watery eyes and a burning in the lungs. Funnily enough Paris’s sewer museum is very close to the location our characters would have surfaced as well, just on the opposite bank of the Seine. Cross that river and head just up the road and you’d find yourself at the site of the old barricade.

The unassuming location of the barrier

That one was also a favorite location of mine that we had visited. A quiet road connecting a bustling mall and cute plaza sits, almost nameless, as the location for the climax for our novel (if there truly even is one). You could never tell now, but here is where the impromptu wall between defiance and despair was erected all the way back in 1789. No, was it 1793? No that’s not right either, 1830? Shit, 1832.

France is known for its long – turbulent – history, especially in regards to revolution. Hugo lived through most of it and watched it with his own eyes, over and over again. Although this could sap most people of their strength and hope entirely, it had a seemingly opposite effect on Hugo. He witnessed all of these things, the horror, and the beauty, and the love, and the light, and the darkness, and the defiance. He simultaneously watched barricades erected high above ground, reaching up towards the heavens, while reconciling it with the stacks of nameless bones buried deep below the same soil. He recognized more than most that the story of Paris is one of layers. The glory and the grief remain inseparable, and perhaps that is a good thing?

“I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women that I have loved; all the cities I have visited”

— Jorge Luis Borges

Walking away from the barricade that day I reflected on my own path, both through this city, and my life at large. How so many things have mirrored our novel, the recurring themes, and this inevitable battle of good vs evil. My strong moral compass has perhaps been the single greatest source of pride in my life. I have held it in the highest regard. Now, after four weeks, multiple countries, and two profound novels, I question even that as I return to my own path. My path, a seemingly endless expanse of a road that is simultaneously inspiring and terrifying. However, I take comfort that I am staring down it through a new lens, perhaps even with a new set of eyes entirely. My time in this class, and on this journey, has had a profound impact on how I see the world, and how I will continue to move through it. I have gathered more inspiration than I could have ever expected, and look forward to capitalizing on it upon my return home. Thank you to all who took the time to read and follow along on my journey, to my new friends I've made along the way, and to our outstanding professor for organizing such a wonderful journey. See you all back in Los Angeles.

An Open Reflection on Ornate Churches

The churches in Paris are unquestionably beautiful. There’s the Notre Dame, full of resolute beauty; the Église de Saint-Germain-des-Prés, joyfully bright and ornate; the Sainte-Chapelle, with stained glass stunning in its sunlit splendor…

Light streaming through the Sainte-Chapelle’s stained-glass windows

They are incredible! They are also innumerable. I love visiting these places - they remind me of the remarkable universality and endurance of my faith. It’s amazing that two perpendicular planks have meaning to countless visitors from countless countries. It’s fun to spot the symbolism hidden amidst church facades and ceiling frescoes. But even as I visit these buildings, sometimes I find myself thinking gosh, it’s just another ornate church… and I tell myself that I already know what to expect. There’ll be a big altar in the center, an organ in the back, vaulted ceilings, and stone columns.

These buildings also bring with them the contentious question of church spending. It’s something that I and my classmates have contemplated as we visit chapel after chapel, wondering whether this money would have been better spent on programs for the poor. I believe that the church’s expenses can be categorized into two parts: the wealth of the church itself and the wealth of its clergy and congregants. In Les Misérables, Victor Hugo is clear in his condemnation for the latter when he introduces the character of Monseigneur Bienvenu, a humble bishop who transforms Valjean’s life through his love and forgiveness.

Monseigneur Bienvenu lives in an old hospital building, a “single-storey, low, narrow building with a small garden.” Of his fifteen-thousand-franc salary, he keeps only one thousand for his own expenditures, having donated the rest to religious foundations, prisons, and the poor. When Monseigneur Bienvenu is invited to a synod of bishops in Paris, he’s struck by his colleagues’ luxurious lifestyles. When he visits one of their homes, the bishop makes his opinion clear:

“Such beautiful clocks! Such beautiful carpets! Such beautiful liveries! They must be very disturbing. Oh, I wouldn’t want to have all these luxuries crying constantly in my ears, ‘There are people who are hungry! There are people who are cold! There are poor people! There are poor people!’”

— Monseigneur Bienvenu

Here, Hugo isn’t condemning the church at large but instead the homes and lifestyles of clergymen who prioritize their well-being over others. I agree with this completely! I remember being taught in Sunday School about the importance of charity. One anecdote that always sticks with me is when Jesus instructs his followers to give to those who are hungry, provide drink to those who are thirsty, invite strangers in, supply clothes to those in need, look after the sick, and visit those in prison. “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine,” He says, “you did for me.” I think it’s beautiful that Christians directly serve their God by being generous to others. With this teaching, then, there’s no reason for congregants - especially church clergy, as leaders of other Christians - to hoard wealth at others’ expense. 

The wealth of the church building itself is a slightly more contentious matter. As I walked through Paris’ brilliant chapels, I found myself wondering if all these places were really necessary. Did all these buildings need a spiral staircase and stained-glass window? Couldn’t some of the money to pay for these magnificent marble statues have instead been given away? 

After a few weeks of thinking about this, I’ve discovered that it’s crucial to understand church buildings through the intention behind them. I asked some Christian friends about my dilemma, and they reminded me that churches are more nuanced than they initially seem. “As much as the church is not an architectural firm,” one friend told me bluntly, “it is also not an almshouse.”

Église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis (church of Saint‐Paul‐Saint‐Louis)

What are churches for, then? Perhaps their main function is to provide a place for people to be reminded of the presence of God. Perhaps churches allow people to see God’s justice through magnificent murals of Christ clearing the temple courts, boldly calling out churchwide corruption. Perhaps they encourage visitors to understand His humility when they witness statues of Christ as a child, who came down to Earth to save the people who mistreated Him. Perhaps churches show His compassion through the cross. Maybe, upon visiting these places, Christians are in turn motivated to live as Christ models and calls them to. They do their best to show others the same love that they see on church frescoes, which includes protecting and caring for the vulnerable members of their community. 

Is some of this extravagant? Yes! God never called for a twenty-four karat cross. When communities build churches not to inspire benevolence but to bring honor and fame to their constructors, I think our criticism of them is completely valid. But if there is a way that a church can bring good to its members, who then can inspire that good in others, it becomes something gorgeous.

One of the most beautiful churches we saw in Paris was the Église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis, a magnificent building with burgundy doors and an open, welcoming nave. I loved it not because of its facade or decorations or interior design, but because it was the church where Marius and Cosette got married - it reminded me of the couple's radiance. I could picture them there on the steps of the church, gazing out at the charming city before them, finally realizing that “their griefs were but so many handmaidens now putting the finishing touches to their joy.” As the two make their way home, their happiness overflows to their observers: “The rapture of these two hearts spilled over on to the crowd and gladdened passers-by.”

Though this moment is about romantic love, it illustrates the way that the church can bring gladness and community to others. This is the kind of church I’d love to see: one that encourages self-forgetful joy. I hope that because of this potential, all the money spent to build these edifices isn’t totally wasted. And I hope that, above all, churches continue to remain places of sanctuary and selflessness - never of avarice, exclusion, or egoism.

**small note: I use “chapel” and “church” quite interchangeably here, but there technically is a difference! To my understanding, churches have a permanent congregation and pastor/priest, whereas chapels have traditionally been smaller spaces without a permanent priest.

Understanding Javert

It was almost sunset as we bookpacked our way to the bridge, a light breeze shifting the water of the Seine. As we stood upon the overpass where Javert met his end, I couldn’t help but reflect on my understanding of said character. I was first introduced to Les Miserables when I was young, and I had been absolutely obsessed with it. But little Luna had been puzzled by the character of Javert, specifically by the choices he made. It had seemed a bit confusing, back then, that this rigid, intense, and unrelenting symbol would fold so suddenly. That he couldn’t accept his new worldview, could change himself upon being shown kindness, couldn’t work to therefore grow and change himself in the same way Valjean had. But as I looked over those railings on the bridge, I considered not just what Javert symbolized, but who he was.

Javert is a character who is most defined by his rigidity in all aspects of life - most of all in his world view. He is extremely hard-lined, obeying rules, policies, and laws to an absolute T—often going overboard in his devotion. He believes that the world is purely black and white, with absolute goodness being found in the law, and absolute bad being within criminals. But the world is not pure black and white, but is instead a kaleidoscope of grey. One of the greatest themes of this novel is that the law can be corrupt, discriminatory, and unjust, and can be wrong in how it enacts justice. Likewise, good people can break laws out of a need to survive, not out of evil intentions or a malicious nature. Javert can therefore be understood as a man defined by his blind righteousness and naive justice, a protagonist in his mind but an antagonist in the book. 

Javert’s intense allegiance to the law doesn’t just affect the way he views others, but how he treats himself. He himself recognizes the fact that he is extremely strict with himself, which presents in all aspects of his life. For starters, he always makes sure his police uniform is perfect to the highest degree. He holds himself to such high standards, to the point where his collar buckle being slightly below his ear and not behind his nape is an indication of “one of those emotional upheavals inside him that might be called an inner earthquakes,”(Dickens, 290).

 I don't think I truly understood just how extreme this level of uniform compliance would have been until we bookpacking the Musée de l'Armée. Although the specific police uniform Javert would have worn wasn’t there, there were enough from that time period for me to understand the sheer amount of buttons, straps, and buckles these uniforms had. For me, the fact that Javert’s collar buckle being slightly off indicating severe inner turmoil really hammers just how hard-lined he is. 

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Beyond his presentation, Javert demonstrates an urgent need to obey rule to an extreme degree, harshly punishing himself for any misstep. When he thought he’d mistakenly reported Madeline for Valjean, therefore committing insubordination, Javert demands that he be immediately fired. For a man defined by his need for justice, he is so quick to give up everything he defines himself by. There is no room for nuance, understanding, or sympathy for both himself and others, just pure black and white. 

But why is Javert like this? While it would be easy to paint this policeman as a surface level villain who needs no explanation for his actions, reflections on his childhood reveals further depth and complexity in this character. A fundamental part in my own understanding of Javert comes from exploring his background, which despite being scarce is extremely informative. He was born in prison to a mother and father who were incarcerated, and likely spent his early years within the hulks. This is a completely unexpected origin for an officer of the law, and the point at which Javert changes from a prison inhabitant to a guard is unclear. Another crucial detail is that Javert is specified to be a Romani man, a group which has historically faced harsh discrimination, racism, and are treated as perpetual outsiders and intruders.

How would an environment that is described to turn the best of men into the worst affect a toddler? How would a child internalize the harsh and rigid structure of prison? Because of his childhood, I believe Javert is a product of his upbringing more than any inherent attributes. From a very young age, he was witness to how people were literally split into two groups, the prisoner and guard, the attacker and protector, the evil and good. As described in the novel, he was an outsider to this society, neither the prisoner nor guard, and thus “had a choice between these two classes only”. When choosing between the described “attacker” or “protector” of society, he chose the path of the latter. Another factor which would have contributed to this choice would be Javert’s own opinions on his background and identity. It is explicitly stated that his “inexpressible hatred” for his ethnicity was one of the reasons why he chose to become a police officer. In the same vein, it’s likely that he feels similar shame and self-hatred over the fact his parents are both inmates. Javert therefore uses his identity as a police officer to both distance himself from these ‘bad’ parts of his identity, while simultaneously joining the side of the perceived ‘good guys’. 

From this, I can conclude that Javert could view criminality as a failure of character, and the breaking of laws as an act of pure evil. In Javert's mind, where the law is good and always correct, he rose out of his difficult childhood without breaking laws because he is a good person. Someone’s inability to do the same without breaking the law therefore means they are a fundamentally bad person. The law is never wrong, and criminals always are. This therefore works to inform his actions throughout the novel. Javert spares no sympathy for the struggles and suffering of Fantine, because in his mind, she is a fundamentally bad person. 

However, his entire worldview got flipped upside down when Valjean both saved Javert and offered himself up to him. Suddenly, that which was fundamentally bad is good, and the law which commands Javert to arrest Valjean is wrong. This goes against everything that the inspector knows, and this revelation breaks him. Perhaps if this had been another person, they could have grown and continued forward with life. But the very nature of who Javert is makes this impossible. His beliefs have been ingrained into his since childhood, and is what he defines his life by. If that was wrong, what else is? He therefore recognizes that he is in the wrong and, in line with his past behavior in the Madeline incident, believes he must be punished. He therefore chooses to

““set about handing in his resignation to God””

— Hugo, Pg.1200

So now - hearing the swells of the river, feeling the breeze on my face, seeing that greenish-blue water - I can’t help but think of Javert. Of the man so rigid and uniform, so extreme yet native. I think of the child who, born into a prison, was raised in the cruelty and abuse inherent in the justice system. Another character who is not inherently bad, but is simply a product of their environment. Bookpacking has opened my eyes to the fact that Javert was not just a one-note villain, but another of the “Miserables”.

An Afternoon at the Existential Café

Café de Flor, on 35mm

“If I had to write a book on morality, it would have a hundred pages and ninety-nine would be blank. On the last page I should write: ‘I recognize only one duty, and that is to love’”

— Albert Camus

When did the day start? When the clock struck midnight? When the sun finally peaked over the Parisian skyline? Perhaps it started when I officially rolled out of bed? Certainly that’s not the case, for my day doesn't start until I’ve had my first cup of coffee, at least.

A sketch by Eugène Delacroix, in his home now turned museum

Whatever, to hell with the question and the entirety of the socratic method, I was never good at all the existential stuff anyways. I’m good at asking questions, but I’m even better at answering them. That's why I was never cut out to be a philosopher, the philosophical loop of thinking yourself into a hole (or, if you're Nietzsche, into an asylum) just doesn't cut it for me. This is quite ironic, though, since philosophy is a big part of my major and since philosophy was inherently responsible for dragging me back into academia.

Parisian alley that leads to a passage in St-Germain, on 35mm

Credit where credit is due, philosophy wasn't the only thing calling me back, just the most prominent. During my time in service I acquired a peculiar taste of inspiration through the humanities at large – philosophy, history, literature, art, poetry, the list continues. You really have to try to cultivate inspiration when you’re in a desert thousands of miles away from everything you love. All of this to say that Paris was inevitable. At this chapter in my life I can say I've loved Paris for years, but this trip was different. From the novels we read before arriving, to the essential museums (Louvre and Orsay at a minimum), to the of houses of Victor Hugo and Eugène Delacroix, and the Bohemia that floats in the air of Pigalle, and of course the art Nouveau ornamenting every street corner… to finally, the café district of St Germain. This time Paris truly captivated my imagination.

Back to the question at hand, I was on my third cup of coffee so the day was in full swing by any metric. All great parisian stories start or end at a cafe. There I sat on the sunny street corner just below the big bold letters “Café de Flor,” the café of the existentialist. My favorite philosopher, Albert Camus, French-Algerian by birth but Parisian by raw spirit, used to frequent this very café. His origins lay in existentialism before developing his own philosophy, absurdism. There is an abundance of stories of long lost days, stories of him and the existential gang loitering with nothing in mind but coffee, debating, and philosophizing (at that rate, everything was probably on their mind). Camus had undoubtedly proven Jean Paul-Satre wrong many-a-time below this very ceiling, and that made me crack a smile as I recalled it. I was following in his footsteps, trying to put myself in his shoes, indeed that is what bookpacking is all about. So I was happy to do it on my afternoon off, especially for a person who was so influential in my life and way of thought.

Camus never expected the world to make sense – in fact he knew it never would. Yet through it all he still showed up, he still stood tall. He wrote, he fought, he loved. I can say with pure honesty that his idea of a quiet, daily defiance is one that has resonated with me through both of the darkest and brightest chapters of my life.

It was absurd, how good the climate was. A light breeze and open sky are perfect conditions to let the mind wander. However, I hadn't come here to think, I had come here to enjoy my time, to soak up the atmosphere. No deadline, no agenda, no place to be. In fact, I didn't hardly think at all. Instead, I spent my time partaking in the national pastime of France: people watching. Quietly I sat alone at the small round table with a fresh cup of coffee and relished being the only audience member in the performing arts center that is Bd Saint-Germain. My own little church of the absurd right off of the street.

I took my time with my sandwich when it finally arrived. Good but overpriced, just as most all nice things are these days, besides feelings. At least feelings remain free of charge I thought. I paid my bill and headed east with no particular plan or urgency. Along my route I passed Hemingway's favorite café, Les Deux Magots. Another one of my most profound inspirations, a man who didn't even try to write, he just bleed from the fingertips with it. Most of my inspirations, unfortunately, are of that counter culture, bohemian, beat style. I wish I could articulate why that’s the case but all I know is that I find comfort in the work of those types. To my mothers horror I have always been drawn to the edges of either comfort or chaos.

Hemingways Café, on 35mm

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

— Ernest Hemingway

I continued leisurely on my journey. I was a flâneur, a uniquely Parisian style of loitering, loitering beautifully. Shamelessly wandering through the maze of streets, observing whatever the city is graceful enough to bless you with. It's not particularly about where you go or what you see, just how it all makes you feel. It was what Edmund White coined as an “eminently Parisian compromise between laziness and activity.” My goal was to seek inspiration without seeking at all – just by walking and paying attention. The streets of Paris ask no questions, so neither did I.

I wandered through cramped alleys, tree-lined boulevards, and even a passage. I truly believe this city will let you in if you just walk slow enough. The Seine glittered as the pigeons scurried along. The old limestone buildings let out their deep and everlasting hum that I was oh-so-familiar with. I passed museums and bookstores and restaurants and trinketshops. I was enthralled by the inexhaustible variety of life that this city offered me.

The Seine, on 35mm

Finally, I looked up and found myself at the Sorbonne, Paris’s premiere university. After such a long walk of taking it all in it suddenly hit me. I could see myself, not as I am, but as I could have been. A young bright-eyed, bushy-tailed flâneur, one with calloused hands and a soft heart. Confidently and slightly drunkenly giving a sermon on left-wing ideology to a table of unimpressed peers at Café de Flor. Sloppily scribbling groundbreaking thoughts into bar napkins and arguing the realities of a revolution with some philosophy dropout who occasionally sells weed behind the Panthéon. Breaking down Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus again just because I had too much coffee – again. I could see myself checking the time mid-sermon and realizing, shit, I'm late. With a single movement throwing my cash down on the table and dashing out the door and down the boulevard like a mad man, toward the Sorbonne, trying to make it in time for my Art History II lecture on Dadaism. Nothing on my person but an empty wallet, a full head, and a notebook that was somewhere in between.

This city reminds me I am not alone in asking many of my questions. For centuries now great minds have walked these same streets, stared out these same windows, and sat in the same absurd theatre. All drawing the same conclusion: None of this matters, which is why all of it matters.

“Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.”

— James Baldwin, Giovani's Room

I didn't come here looking for a place, I came looking for a condition, funnily enough though I didn't know that until I finally found it. The first time I came as a flâner, and this time as a student. Both times I knew something was waiting for me, and now I've finally put my finger on it.

Paris is more than just a location to me, it's a state of being. I've found my own backstreets and dark corners that make it mine. Even with my outspoken nature and passion for rebellion, this city has room for me. Camus found a crack in the facade that is the world and it led him here, perhaps I’ve found the same one, just decades later.

This was our theatre of the absurd, our little secret.

Parisian metro, on 35mm

The Past and the Present in Conversation

While walking around and exploring London, one of the first things I noticed was the extreme juxtaposition between the historic, classic architecture that has been preserved for centuries and the modern, sleek, glass buildings that accompany them. Everywhere you look, there are pubs, towers, and chapels that are hundreds and hundreds of years old, yet on the same blocks there are highly contemporary and modern corporate skyscrapers.

This contrast is a great representation of London, at least to my understanding of it. London is an incredibly historic city, and it is a city that is proud of its history and that seeks to preserve it and honor it as much as possible. This can be seen through the architecture as mentioned before, but also through the preservation of customs and traditions. One of the streets we walked down was lined with countless gentleman’s clubs, membership only clubs in which a clientele of mostly older men gather to have a drink and read the paper. These clubs may seem like quite an archaic concept, but the tradition has prevailed and the clubs still have plenty of regularly attending members.

This is just one example of London and the greater UK’s attachment and loyalty to its past. The most significant of these is, of course, the monarchy. The British Monarchy no longer holds any political power, but it still stands as a symbol of the United Kingdom, and it holds an air of importance across the nation. Depending on your point of view, London could be a city that honors its historical legacy by preserving the old, or it could be a city that hangs onto an era that no longer exists.

On the other hand, the modern, glass skyscrapers that fill London’s skyline represent the other side of London: an incredibly modern, innovative, melting pot of a city. London is one of the leading cities in the world when it comes to art, culture, entertainment, industry, finance, and education. While it is a city that is steeped in thousands of years of history, it is also on the cutting edge of culture.

The skyline shown in this picture is a perfect example of exactly what I’m talking about. On display in the center of the image is the Tower of London. The White Tower, which lies in the center of the Tower of London, was built in 1078. This building has nearly a thousand years of history, serving as everything from an armory to a prison, and standing as a representation of the monarchy for many centuries. In this same image, on the right end of the more modern buildings, stands a contemporary piece of architecture colloquially known as The Gherkin, a cylindrical corporate skyscraper that gets its nickname from the fact that it kind of looks like a pickle. The Gherkin was built in 2004. Nearly a thousand years separates these two buildings, and they look absolutely nothing alike, yet they both decorate the skyline of London, and somehow it makes perfect sense.

It’s especially interesting to notice these differences while bookpacking A Tale of Two Cities. It is quite a unique experience to see the locations from the novel nearly exactly as they would have looked at the time it took place juxtaposed with the modern developments of today’s London. We went to have a meal at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, a nearly five hundred year old pub that Charles Dickens frequented (which was also likely the inspiration for the pub that Stryver and Sydney Carton met at near the beginning of the book). When you enter the pub, it’s like entering a time machine. You can practically picture Dickens sitting in the corner of the pub working on his latest novel. The dim, moody lighting, the old wooden floors and creaky stairs, an old figurine resembling the parrot that used to hang out behind the bar. Then you take a step outside, and suddenly you’re in a bustling, modern, corporate city filled with finance workers on their lunch break.

This comparison and coexistence of old and new ties in perfectly with the texts we have been reading, both A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables. These are both historical novels whose plots very directly hinge on the history of the time in which they take place. A Tale of Two Cities is very explicitly a story of the French Revolution that took place in the late 18th century, the entire plot of the novel is contingent on it. Les Misérables takes place during the June Rebellion of 1832, which is massively important to the plot. These novels firmly take place in very specific moments in history for very specific reasons.

However, despite this grounding in history, the stories told and lessons learned from these novels can be interpreted through a very modern lens. A Tale of Two Cities is a story of social injustice and inequality, and the inevitable violence and destruction it leads to. While it is centered around the French Revolution, the story can absolutely be related to this present moment in history. Not to mention, the contrast between new and old quite directly relates to the iconic introduction to the novel (“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”), in which Dickens uses juxtaposition to introduce the complicated nature of that moment in history.

The same can be said about Les Misérables, perhaps to an even greater extent. Although it is an old novel set nearly two hundred years ago, its morals can be applied to today. Jean Valjean’s story is one of redemption and rehabilitation, Javert’s represents the injustice and absoluteness of the law and the criminal justice system, Fantine represents the crushing weight of poverty. Just like walking through London and seeing ancient towers next to modern skyscrapers, reading these novels introduces you to historical events and their modern parallels.

just romanticize it!

Art is a risk. It’s a risk that you create something and no one will enjoy it. 

Being creative is the action of producing something. It’s active not passive, which makes a “writing block” fictitious. If it’s fictitious, why am I spending so much time pondering what I should write about for this last blog post. Should I write about Cosette, Jean Valjean, or Marius? Where do I even start?

Last year, if you told me to study abroad for a month, I probably would have told you “no.” I would have told you “it’s too expensive.” But in reality, I was too scared. Too scared to throw myself out of routine, out of my home, out of my comfort zone. I was also scared to become a new person or even change. What if when I come back I lose all my healthy habits and become someone of zero ambition?

That seems a little irrational and ironic. Studying abroad is one of the most “self-growth inducing” things I’ve done. Sure, I’ve thought about going home almost every single day. At some point, I was begging my dad to book me a flight home. Take me home. But I stuck it through. It’s August 7th, which means I’m three days away from returning home. 

Packing my bags and looking through everything I got, I realized how many souvenirs I got. And I quickly noticed how none are for me. There are all for family and friends. Well, it was intentional. One I don’t want to spend more money of course. And two, my souvenirs are the lessons I learned and my growth as a person.

The first lesson I learned is about art. 

I will never be someone that will choose to go to a museum. Call me basic, but I prefer pretty views and destinations. I never really had an appreciation for art. When I was excited to go to Paris, I was looking forward to seeing the Eiffel tower and the Seine River. I wasn’t expecting to see a million museums and churches. 

Slowly, I gained an appreciation for art. Art is something that is vulnerable. It requires courage for someone to paint their strokes with no promise of outcome. Not every stroke is a guarantee toward a finish line. It’s completely creation-based. It’s a risk. Maybe the painting will turn out ugly, but no one will ever notice all your hard work. Maybe the painting will only be beautiful when you are not there to reap the benefits. 

Art is not just paintings. Art is anything that requires creativity. Something that causes you to produce something out of nothing. Yes, art’s a risk, but life without art is soulless. The absence of art would mean no beautiful paintings, no entertaining movies, no delicious food, no beautiful clothes to wear.

Art is the root of our enjoyment. It’s the root of slow sustainable enjoyment, giving one a boost of serotonin. Forgive me, I love science. 

The second lesson I learned is that Paris is not the city of love, it’s the city of romance. 

Love is different from romance. Love is a deep feeling of bondage one feels with another individual or thing. Romance is something entirely different. 

Officially, romance is “a feeling of mystery and excitement associated with love.” But romance, I argue, is something entirely different. It’s an essence. It’s the beauty of the buildings. It’s the sun shining through the stained glass of the Saint Chapel. It’s the articulate architecture of the Eiffel tower. It’s the texture of the pages flipping through your fingers. Romance is a feeling. 

In the U.S., we’ve capitalized on the whole “romanticize your life.” We’ve turned it into a spending hobby and a trend, rather than an act of appreciation and art. Before I knew what was true romanticization, I thought it was buy yourself a coffee, take a bubble bath, indulge in a movie, and of course don’t forget to take Pinterest worthy pictures so you can post it in your Instagram story. Both of those could be romanticized, but romance doesn’t require you to do anything extra. 

It’s about taking what you already have and turning it into something beautiful. Walking to class, ok let me gallivant to class and smile at people when I walk there. Reading Les Miserables for this summer class, ok let me light a candle and make myself a cup of warm tea. Eating a meal, ok let me sit down and enjoy all the flavors of the food.   

Samantha caught me right as the Eiffel Tower started sparkling. I think this was the first time I actually understood what true romance meant.

Being a romantic is about enjoying every moment, regardless of whether it’s something you want to do. Being in Paris makes it a lot easier, but I will admit not everyone is a romantic here. Or not everyone is retaining their romantic behaviors. 

When I’m walking from our accommodation to Accent, the first thing I notice is people walking with their phones open and their heads down. When I'm on the metro, people are scrolling through TikTok. Technology has hurt this sense of romance. 

But I’m choosing to take only the good with me. Doing one thing at a time. Not scrolling while I’m waiting. Instead, noticing what’s around me. Not watching while eating. Instead, talking to family and enjoying the flavor profile of my meal. Not texting while walking, rather smiling to the people around me. 

These small shifts turn me into a romantic. Someone who enjoys every little moment. Someone who’s ok with being bored. Someone who sees extra time as a way to be creative and produce art, rather than merely consume it. 

Don’t get me wrong, consuming art is the basis of inspiration, but there comes a point where consumption overrides production. And it’s not about producing as much as possible in as little of time (aka productivity and hustle culture). It’s about taking the time to enjoy those brush strokes on the canvas and the words on the paper. It’s about taking the risk to enjoy the act.

Paris and London! Here’s a little video diary of some of the special moments.

Paris as a Living Reminder of the Past

Before coming to Paris, I expected elegance, high fashion, and exquisite bakeries. Paris is elegant, yes, but it’s also bold, complex, and deeply rooted in history. What struck me first was the atmosphere. Paris immediately had a different energy than any other place I’ve been, especially London. Where London often felt more polished and proper, Paris feels more raw and real.

Inside of Notre Dame Catherdral

The social norms reminded me of home on the East Coast. People tend to engage less in unnecessary small talk, valuing directness over surface-level interactions. Still, I appreciated the honesty in it. One thing that differs from the bustling lifestyle of America is the lack of hustle culture here. Instead, there’s a focus on taking things one day at a time and appreciating the moment. There’s also an undeniable sense of pride that runs through Paris. It’s quiet, yet obvious, in how carefully history is preserved and in the seriousness with which language, food, and identity are treated. This sort of national pride is alluded to by Dickens when he explores how people felt an obligation to the Republic during the revolution.

Religion still feels central to the city’s identity. Cathedrals and chapels are everywhere, most notably Notre-Dame, of course, but also countless smaller churches scattered throughout the city. The architecture of Notre-Dame was breathtaking. While Dickens doesn’t directly identify himself as a Christian, I felt like the ideas of God and religion play a symbolic role in how he explores morality, redemption, and sacrifice. Dr. Manette being “recalled to life” from the years that he spent in prison by rekindling his relationship with his daughter Lucie mirrors biblical themes of rebirth. Additionally, Sydney Carton’s testimony of self-sacrifice, where he dies in the place of Charles Darnay, echoes Christian ideals of suffering and laying down one’s life for another. Dickens frames this act as one of moral and even spiritual transcendence, suggesting that redemption is possible for anyone, even for someone like Carton who deemed himself unworthy.  

Palace of Versailles

I especially felt the weight of history at the Palace of Versailles. It felt overwhelmingly grand with its gold, high ceilings, intricate artwork, and vast, beautiful gardens. While physically extravagant, what stood out to me was the sheer amount of wealth held within the palace walls, a contrast to the reality of the poor who were struggling to survive as the monarchy lived in luxury. It makes sense to me that the Revolution followed. Versailles is beautiful, but it also feels detached from reality. It reminded me of the class divisions in A Tale of Two Cities, where the aristocracy thrives in luxury while the poor starve. History truly repeats itself.

I also noticed a sense of admiration for Napoleon at Versailles. The number of people crowding to get a snapshot of his bed or murals made it feel like he was being idolized. His legacy is complicated; while many criticize him for his invasions, in Paris, he is still remembered with respect. The fact that his tomb has become a major attraction and a monetized destination says a lot. While one can be seen as a hero and savior to some, they can simultaneously be an enemy to others.

Another recurring theme during our first week was the criminal justice system of nineteenth century France, particularly through our visits to Place de la Concorde and the Conciergerie. These experiences led me to reflect on the question: Who deserves justice and why? In class, we discussed the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen, which guaranteed all individuals the right to “liberty, property, security, and resistance to oppression.” Yet in practice, women, children, foreigners, and servants were often excluded and discriminated against.

Women’s courtyard

Dickens reminds us that revolutions are not just political, they’re deeply personal. Characters like Madame Defarge show us how grief and trauma are inseparable from history. Walking through the women’s courtyard at the Conciergerie, I felt that same sense of personal loss that is often dimmed by the intensity of political conflict. These weren’t just historical figures; they were daughters, sisters, mothers, and fighters. I especially appreciated the garden because it centers the voices of women so often left out of traditional narratives. It was striking to learn that this section of the Conciergerie is the least altered part of the site since the French Revolution, as if the stories there refused to be erased. 

In both A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables, women’s perspectives are frequently sidelined, so I valued the chance to learn about the stories of real women who were actively fighting for justice during this time. One woman who stood out was Olympe de Gouges, memorialized in the garden. I admired that she called herself a feminist long before it was generally accepted, embracing Enlightenment ideals and writing boldly in defense of women’s rights. The way she was imprisoned in the Conciergerie and sentenced to death simply for standing up for democracy is a reminder of how dangerous it has always been for people, especially women, to speak out against the status quo. It's disheartening that this kind of threat to democracy is still visible in the world today. 

Of all the places we visited during the first week, the Conciergerie felt the most somber. It was here that Charles Darnay believed he would spend his final days, and standing inside those walls, I was transported to envision his fear. Cold stone corridors, echoing footsteps, narrow hallways, and small windows barely letting in light, the building seems to close in on you. It doesn’t try to romanticize history. It forces you to feel it. 

One of the most haunting spaces in the Conciergerie was Marie Antoinette’s cell. It’s quiet and dimly lit, almost frozen in time, a stark contrast to the grandeur she once lived in at Versailles. Standing in the small stone chamber where she awaited her execution, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of history sink in. Seeing it in person made me think of A Tale of Two Cities, where Dickens doesn’t shy away from the brutal realities of the French Revolution. Marie Antoinette, like many aristocrats, is a symbol of the inequality that drove the revolution forward, yet her final moments, like Charles Darnay’s imprisonment, remind us that even those in power are vulnerable when systems of justice become tools of vengeance. Dickens shows how the line between justice and revenge can quickly blur. Like Darnay, she was condemned not just for who she was, but for what she represented — a reminder that revolutions, while rooted in justice, often end in suffering.  

A Tale of Two Cities warns us that if inequality and injustice go unchallenged, violence doesn’t just happen, it becomes inevitable and normalized. Dickens brings us through a revolution that begins with ideals and ends with a spectacle, where justice is reduced to performance and the guillotine becomes a routine event. Standing in Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine once stood, I couldn’t help but think how quickly hope can turn into horror. Today, it’s a stunning square that encompasses you, surrounded by fountains and monuments, but beneath that elegance is a history soaked in fear. In the novel, the guillotine is ever so casually referred to as the National Razor that shaves close. That’s the danger Dickens is highlighting: when killing becomes ordinary, revolution loses its moral center. It was haunting to stand there and realize that what began as a fight for liberty and equality ended in pain and persecution. 

Paris made the French Revolution feel real in a way I hadn’t expected. The revolution was more than a series of historical events, but lived experiences, full of pain, justice, and meaning. In A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens explores what happens when society fails to protect the vulnerable, when justice becomes revenge, and when history forgets the humanity of its people. Visiting Paris helped me see how these themes aren’t limited to the literature; they are alive in the architecture, the memorials, and even the somberness of places like the Conciergerie. Like the novel, Paris is a city where the past never disappears. It lingers to warn, remind, and demand to be remembered.

What We Stay Alive For

“Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”

— Robin Williams

Robin Williams delivers this line in one of my favorite films, Dead Poets Society. As someone studying both medicine and engineering, I make it a priority to seek out beauty wherever I can. To eagerly read, to love art, people, and places deeply, and to stay curious. Growing up in St. Louis, my mom and I took full advantage of the city's free cultural institutions, including the art museum, zoo, and science center. Lately, the St. Louis art museum has felt like the perfect escape (pictured below). So when I had the opportunity to visit the Louvre, I was practically kicking my feet with joy.

Visiting the world's largest museum can be overwhelming if you are trying to see everything, nearly impossible in a day. Mathematically, you'd need to absorb one artwork per second. Instead, I was given a challenge (boy, do I love challenges) to find characters of Les Misérables in the art. 

Walking into the Louvre, the Mona Lisa felt more like a box to check off than a personal destination. It's a small, subdued portrait of a rather ordinary woman. Painted in 1503, she lived in quiet and secluded French Palaces until the Revolution, then Napoleon's bedroom, and finally the Louvre. But it wasn't until her mysterious disappearance in 1911 that she became famous. For two years, crowds visited the space where she once hung. When she returned, she was no longer just a painting; she was a natural treasure and cultural icon. 

This transformation mirrors Cosette's journey in Les Misérables. When Marius first walks past her, she is a quiet, "rather sullen" girl in a garden. Six months later, he notices a shift: "no longer the ingenuous and uncomplicated gaze of a child, it was a mysterious chasm that had opened up, then abruptly closed again." The next day, Marius puts on his new hat and boots to impress her. He seems to fall for what she represents, rather than who she is. 

Just like the Mona Lisa, Cosette is admired less for her true self and more for what others project onto her—some symbol of mystery. Once disregarded by the Thenardiers and seen only by Valjean, she eventually becomes distant, idolized, and romanticized. Marius, like the crowds who once visited the empty wall where the Mona Lisa used to hang, falls for the idea of her. Both Cosette and the Mona Lisa are framed by distance and desire.

There's also the question of identity. For centuries, historians have speculated about the identity of the Mona Lisa. Lisa Gherardini? But no commission from her husband exists. A fantasy? Da Vinci himself in disguise? Similarly, Cosette grows up in the shadow of an untold past. She doesn't learn her mother's name, Fantine, until Valjean's final moments. It makes me wonder, if we knew the Mona Lisa's origins, would she seem a little less mysterious? 

Leaving the Mona Lisa behind, I wandered down the stairs and found myself face to face with Michelangelo's Rebellious Slave. I noticed how his potent torso strains every muscle and ligament to break free from the bands that confine him. 

It was a younger Valjean, carved in stone. 

Valjean spends his entire life trying to break free from the identity of "convict", from society's labels, from Javert's pursuit, even from his guilt. No matter how far he runs or how deeply he changes, the chains remain. Like the statue, he is both powerful and imprisoned. Both represent the systemic barriers that keep their souls from being free. 

Later, I passed a sculpture that had remaining parts of the carved stone from two different sketches. The background was transparent, and I could see where the stones went. But the process of historians piecing it together amazed me. How difficult. It reminded me of Hugo's craftsmanship of Les Misérables. A hundred pages on a random bishop. An entire chapter on the Battle of Waterloo. At first, I kept asking, What does this have to do with a convict and a girl? 

But like the sculpture, the parts eventually come together.  

That bishop becomes the moral foundation of the book. The Battle of Waterloo leads us to meet Marius's dad and Thenardier. Each side's narrative, like each piece of stone, plays a role in shaping the whole. You don't see it all at once. 

I made my way up to the top floor, where it's quieter and less crowded. I passed beautiful paintings: icebergs, a dog longing for food. I stop dead in my tracks at a painting by Pierre Narcisse Guerin. A portrait of a young girl, bare-chested, holding herself protectively, with short hair. Her eyes looked forward with a quiet, unwavering sadness. It was Fantine. 

At first, the young girl appears calm and composed, almost classical. But the longer you look, the more you see it. There is endurance behind her. Pain she's learned to wear like skin. Fantine, too, was exposed and discarded by society. She sold her hair, teeth, and body to protect Cosette. The girl's gesture, shielding herself, echoes Fantine's loss of control and stolen innocence. And yet, she doesn't collapse. She remains human through the inhumane things she went through. 

Looking back, the Louvre was not just about seeing famous works. As I searched for Les Misérables in frames and sculptures, I found the meaning. These characters weren't just figures in a novel, but a living reflection of human emotion and struggle in paintings, sculptures, and more.

As a student grounded in science, it's easy to get caught up in logic. But art like this, and stories like Hugo's, remind me why I'm here in the first place. Not just to sustain life, but to understand it. To feel it. You just have to look closely enough. 

Character Studies

Our explorations so far have focused on the intersection between book and place, but Les Misérables is a tale that transcends time and space. To prove it, we went to the Louvre and searched its collection for each character’s painted counterpart.

Here’s a catalogue of our beloved crew, as seen through centuries of European art:

Javert | The Lictors Bringing Brutus the Bodies of his Sons, Jacques-Louis David 

In the corner of this painting, we see Brutus half-hidden in the shadows, his face a mask of grim devotion. Behind him lies the body of one of his sons, who Brutus had beheaded for conspiring against the Republic. Brutus’ pose is tense and agitated - here, he is forced to choose between loyalty and love.

The parallels between this Roman consul and Javert are clear: both are rigid in their devotion to justice and legalism. Javert’s agony after letting Valjean go mirrors Brutus’ agitation as he watches his family mourn. Both men test the extent of their humanity. On that bridge over the Seine, Javert suddenly realizes how terrible it is that “beneath your torso of bronze you have something absurd and unruly that is almost like a heart.” I’m sure Brutus is reckoning with the same dreadful feeling as he tests how far he will go for the sake of his country. Brutus loses his sons and Javert, unable to cope with his changed conscience, loses his life.

Fantine | The Burial of Atala, Anne Louis Girodet-Trioson

The placard next to the painting tells us that Atala is the fiancée of a Native American man called Chactas, who hugs her legs. She has poisoned herself in order to preserve her vow of chastity. Through the mouth of the cave we see a cross in the distance and the soft glow of light. The description to the left of the painting tells us that, through the cross bathed in light, the scene’s “horror and sadness are mitigated by the Christian belief in salvation after death.” 

Fantine’s last moments are not so peaceful. Yet like Atala, Fantine also serves as a figure of purity. Despite her past, when Jean Valjean first meets her, he says that “you’ve never ceased to be virtuous and holy in the sight of God.” Valjean, like the priest in this painting, gently takes care of Fantine’s body after her death, tidying her hair and closing her eyes. Just as we see with the light in this picture, Fantine’s face is also “strangely illuminated.” For both Atala and Fantine, our consolation is that they will be saved from their earthly suffering in heaven. 

Marius | Daphnis et Chloé, François Gérard

Let’s be honest: the man in this painting looks exactly like the kind of guy who’d say something like “If there were not someone who loved, the sun would be extinguished” (yes, that is an authentic Marius quote). In this painting, Daphnis and his lover, Chloé, are peaceful, radiant, and resplendent in their love. This scene reminds me of when Marius meets with Cosette in her garden. Look at the painting’s bright rays of sun! Look at its lush foliage and lovely colors. It looks exactly like how the couple would see their world together.

Throughout the novel, Marius often goes to extremes. He changes from a loyal royalist to a defiant Bonapartist in memory of his father. One day, he’s in raptures over Cosette; the next, he’s risking his life on the barricade because he can't bear to live without her. It's hard to understand Marius’ ideology sometimes because the majority of his motivations are characterized by love - love for his father, love for his partner, and love for his friends. That is how he operates, and that is how we see him in this painting. Marius: a man in love. 

“Marius was at Cosette’s side. Never had the sky been starrier or more spellbinding, the trees more tremulous, the plant smells more pervasive. Never had the birds fallen asleep among the leaves with a sweeter sound. Never had all the harmonics of cosmic serenity better answered the inward music of love.”

— Victor Hugo

Gavroche | The Wounded Drummer Boy, François Bouchot 

Gavroche, the little gamin, is present in every brushstroke of this painting. According to the Louvre’s description, this “drummer boy” could have been the real-life Joseph Bara, a fourteen-year-old volunteer in the French Revolutionary Army. He was killed by Vendean royalists and became a republican martyr.

The drummer boy’s youthful innocence is etched into the canvas, his final expression soft and peaceful. His young age is a testament to the fighting’s brutality. Gavroche, like the drummer boy, is the epitome of revolutionary spirit. Both boys illustrate the battle’s costs through their tragic deaths: for example, when Gavroche is shot, “The whole barricade gave a cry.”

Gavroche may not be a drummer boy, but he goes down singing. This “great little soul” gives strength to the rest of the barricade.

Éponine | Velléda, Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot 

This girl’s plain clothes and pained expression make me immediately think of Éponine. She looks down rather than at the viewer, her dark eyes mournful. Her eyes are dull and her hair long and unkempt. The dark, wintry background reminds me of the cold Gorbeau tenement, which Hugo describes as “squalid, dark, [and] sordid.” 

The girl’s index finger rests listlessly on an open book. When I saw it, I thought of how sad Éponine seems when she boasts that she knows how to write. She reads and writes fluently, to be sure, but she shows off as if she is trying to prove that she is not as pitiful as she seems. “There’s no spelling mistakes,” she tells Marius. “You can look. We’ve had some education, my sister and me. We haven’t always been the way we are now.” 

Maybe the girl in this painting feels the same shame.

Enjolras | Wounded Roman Soldier, Jean-Germain Drouais 

The soldier’s gaze is fierce. His hand covers a bloody cut. His sword lies by his side, ready to be picked up again; whoever this soldier is, he has not given up. Though he is wounded, he is ready to fight.  

I see Enjolras here, a man with “only one passion: rightfulness.” Indeed, like this Roman soldier, Enjolras won’t back down from what he believes in. When Enjolras is about to be killed by a throng of soldiers and guardsmen, he faces them “with a proud gaze, head held high, with that stump of a weapon in his hand.” I picture him with the same expression as the wounded Roman soldier here. These men will never give up their honor or courage. They will always look their enemies in the eye. 

“‘Who goes there?’
At the same time could be heard the clatter of guns being readied.
Enjolras replied in a proud, ringing tone, ‘The French Revolution!’”

— Victor Hugo

Cosette | Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci

This is the only picture I've included with other people in it, mainly because I wanted to show you that the Mona Lisa is packed. Tourists from all around the world clamor to take her picture. She is adored by everyone for reasons nobody can really articulate. She has become the icon of the Louvre in the same way that Cosette has become the icon of Les Misérables. 

Bayard’s Cosette Sweeping - not in the Louvre but often found on book covers and musical posters. Les Mis’ own Mona Lisa.

Both women are beautiful, both are popular, both are loved by all. For better or for worse, they have become the faces of something much larger than themselves. Whether people read Les Misérables for the little girl on the cover or come to the Louvre for the woman with the mysterious smile, I hope they find so much more than they ever hoped for.

Jean Valjean

There are quite a few paintings that remind me of our protagonist’s chief characteristics: the tenderness in the elderly gentleman’s face in Portrait of an Old Man and a Boy, the heroic dedication of the brown-haired man in The Deluge, the peaceful solitude of the figure in Sunset in Chevrier…

But I found that Jean Valjean most resembles us, the visitors at the Louvre. Like us at the museum, Valjean sees the heights and depths of humanity. Yet while we see it through paintings, he sees it through his own experiences. When he meets the bishop, for example, Valjean encounters the best of men; when he sees the exploitation of Cosette, the wickedness of Paris’ criminal underbelly, and the brutality of the barricade, he sees the very worst. Like us, Valjean is often on the outside looking in. He observes others from a distance, feeling as separated as we do from the events of these paintings: for most of the years he spends with Cosette, Valjean “was concealing his name, concealing his identity, concealing his age” in order to protect his family from his past.

There’s parts of Valjean that resonate with all of us, whether that be his complicated backstory, his changed personality, or his ongoing journey to redemption. As museum-goers, we get to see how the story and characters of Les Misérables are reflected across countless places and periods, from fifteenth-century tempera paintings to our contemporary experiences. In both the Louvre and Les Mis, we see emotion, love, glory, pain, light, and darkness - we see every expression of our shared humanity.

The Final Walks of Sydney Carton and Jean Valjean

Twice now, we have arrived at the original stones of La Force that remain at the corner of Rue Mahler and Rue Pavée. This spot merges the stories of Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities and Jean Valjean in Les Misérables. This is the spot where Cartons accepts his end and Valjean rejects his existence.

For Carton, this streetcorner is where he begins his final walk of life. This is the place where Lucie once stood–devoutly waiting for Darnay's release. She stood outside “in all weathers” hoping he might catch a glimpse of her even for a moment. Lucie did this for fifteen-months despite never seeing Darnay through the barred windows above. Little remains of La Force today. A stone column still stands and there’s a plaque on Rue du Roi de Sicile detailing the 161 political prisoners sentenced to death, including the Princesse de Lamballe, over three days in September of 1792. I imagine Carton looking skyward on a starless night in 1793, uttering “let me follow in her steps.”

He strolled along the darker streets, tracing the path of the tumbrils carting sixty a day to Place de la Revolution. This appears as Place de la Concorde, point C, on my map. The walk down Rue de Rivoli to Rue St Honoré is about three-kilometers, leaving time for contemplation. Perhaps Carton reviewed his plan in swapping places with Darnay. Perhaps he visualized how the guillotine would slice down upon him. Perhaps he felt relief in knowing Lucie would not die with a broken heart. I’d like to think that Carton reflected on his conversation with Mr. Lorry in which he confided that his life has amounted to nothing.

“I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing good or service-able to be remembered by!”

— Sydney Carton in A Tale of two Cities by Charles Dickens

Carton is haunted by a life lacking purpose. He feels that he serves no greater good. In saving Darnay, Carton can also absolve himself from his internal reckoning. He is the sacrificial lamb as Jesus was for his followers. He is the "resurrection and the life.” His words are sad and endearing. What he failed to achieve in life, he must achieve in martyrdom. His final thought before he dies…

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

— Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

…is utterly beautiful. He has sealed his fate, and it is La Guillotine. In this treachery, there is a goodness so pure in saving Darnay and sacrificing himself. He is putting an end to others’ suffering, and also his own.

Drawing by Hablot Knight Browne

We returned to Rue Pavée to trace Valjean’s final walks too. While Carton faced a fateful decision at this streetcorner, Valjean faced guilty indecision. He bides his time on his walks to see Cosette, never taking the most direct path. From Rue de l’Homme-Armé to Rue des Filles du Calvaire, Valjean ambles to Rue Pavée criticizing what his life has become. He has lost his sense of purpose. He is devoid of his fatherhood and everything that Cosette meant to him. He always ran from his past for Cosette’s sake, and now that she isn’t around, he has lost the reason to continue running. He was a resurrected man in earlier years, upholding his promise to Bishop Bienvenu to take his silver candle sticks and become an “honest man.” The Bishop said: “Jean Valjean, my brother, you’re no longer owned by evil but by good. It’s your soul I’m buying. I’m redeeming it from dark thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I’m giving it to God.” Valjean was now past his time of renewal. He was a convict in the eyes of the law, an afterthought in Cosette’s new life with Marius, and once again a broken man. On these walks, he could not reconcile the disparate image he saw of himself. His thoughts wavered and scattered, and his feet did the same.

“Soon he no longer came even as far as Rue St-Louis. He would arrive at Rue Pavee, shake his head and turn back. Then, he no longer went beyond Rue des Trois-Pavillions. Then, no further than Blancs-Manteaux. He was like the pendulum of a clock that does not get wound, its arc shortening until it stops altogether.”

— Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

I believe that Valjean denies himself of Cosette as punishment for his own forsaken soul. He cannot forgive himself for the man he was, running from the law and impersonating others to bury the name of Jean Valjean. His life has been one big sacrifice for Cosette and now he seeks a lonesome death. He clothes himself in the darkness that Carton wore all his life.

I see sacrifice in Carton’s death and in Valjean’s life. These men are contrastive, yet martyrs in their own right. The death that Carton chose for himself was the life that Valjean lived, and vice versa. These final walks reveal the opposing forces of will cast over these men: Carton accepting an early death to save a family and Valjean rejecting a long life to have a family. Each man is contemplative in their own way: Carton evades his own self-cynicism to stand for a greater good and Valjean embraces his inner self-hatred to remove all sense of good. Tragedy and grace walk a fine line here.

I’d like to imagine that in some space and time continuum, Carton and Valjean would have arrived at the corner of Rue Mahler and Rue Pavée in the same instant. Perhaps, they would have bumped into one another lost in their own thoughts. Their eyes would have met. In this glance, there would have been the mutual understanding of the broken and the resurrected man within one another.

An Ode to the Underbelly

The Sewer Museum wasn’t something I imagined I would go to when visiting Paris. It felt like a strange detour at first—a descent into the literal underbelly of the city, far from the typical romanticism above ground. But as Victor Hugo once said, we must shine a light on the underbelly of society. I made my way through the echoing corridors and listened to the water trickling alongside history. I realized I had stumbled upon a hidden cornerstone of one of the great achievements of Paris. This wasn’t just about engineering. This was about progress.

Victor Hugo understood this. In Les Misérables, he devoted entire chapters to the Parisian sewers—not out of grim curiosity, but because he saw in them a triumph of human achievement. The sewers were more than just tunnels; they were the arteries of a modern city, essential to its health, growth, and dignity.

“There is no good historian of the evidence, the manifest and the remarkable, of the public life of nations, who is not also to some extent the historian of their underlying and hidden life.”

— Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Solving the sewage system was one of the most important public health advancements in modern history. Disease once swept through cities unchecked, carried in contaminated water and poor sanitation. But by daring to look where no one wanted to—into the filth, the waste, the infrastructure no one celebrated—engineers, visionaries, and reformers transformed the future. Civilization didn’t advance by avoiding what was unpleasant. It progressed by confronting it directly, with courage and imagination.

And it was true. Walking through the museum, you could feel that: the filth and the function, the darkness and the design. It is easy to take clean water and efficient systems for granted, but the museum makes you realize that these are triumphs, hard-won by centuries of failure, labor, and vision. Displays trace the system’s evolution—from Bruneseau’s early explorations through Haussmann’s sweeping 19th-century reforms, right up to today’s digital monitoring networks. It’s a story not just of pipes and tunnels, but of politics, sacrifice, and the will to imagine a better life for all.

The story of the Paris sewers mirrors the story of civilization itself: jagged, uneven, full of setbacks and breakthroughs. It’s not a straight path, and it certainly isn’t glamorous. It costs lives, it demands political will, and it requires people with the courage to imagine something better long before it’s possible. But the result—cleaner cities, longer lives, a foundation for society to build itself upon—is worth every difficult step.

But I think Hugo added the sewers for another reason. To show different forms of progress. On one side, we see the heroic men who fought and died for this country on the barricades, and that certainly is worthy progress. But this kind of progress is quiet. Underground. Often unnoticed. It doesn’t carry a flag or chant songs, but it lays the groundwork upon which all revolutions must be built. That was what Hugo grasped so profoundly. He romanticized the barricades, yes. But he also understood that beneath them ran the sewer, and without that base, the society that the revolution fought for would not be here.

As I left the museum, I thought back to a conversation I had earlier about human progress and the thoughts of Enjolras. He represents the more visible, dramatic kind of change—urgent, idealistic, uncompromising. Enjolras charges ahead, demanding that the future arrive faster and at whatever cost. His barricades were noble, yes, but they were temporary. The loud revolutions get the praise, but that praise doesn’t last. The quiet revolutions? They endure.

In today's world, progress is less about the roar of revolution and more about the hum of technology, policy, and global awareness. Our barricades are climate change, inequality, mental health, and justice reform. And still, like in the tunnels below Paris, much of the necessary work happens in quiet spaces: in back offices, in research labs, in data centers—or underground.

Later in the novel, Hugo spends a few chapters describing Jean Valjean’s trek through the sewers while saving Marius. Valjean has multiple close encounters with danger and death, yet Marius has no idea and for a while later he never realizes how hard Valjean fought so he could be there. I think it’s funny how Hugo depicted this scene in the sewers since the sewers serve society as Jean Valjean served Marius. Without the sewer, society would not function the way it does today. And it didn’t happen without setbacks. But it goes to show that progress isn't always glorious. Sometimes it's dirty. Sometimes it smells. Sometimes it takes centuries to get right. But to me, that doesn’t diminish its value—it elevates it. To recognize the sewer is to recognize the importance of Valjean’s trek, and to recognize truth of society: that beneath every shining city lies the labor of many, mostly unseen and unthanked.

“If I have seen further [than others], it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

— Isaac Newton

Revolution happens both above and below. It is both poetic and practical. And it continues. Always.

The Audacity of the French Elite

As I first approached the palace of Versailles, I was instantly overwhelmed by its sheer level of majesty. Golden scaffolding was embedded on its roof, mansions upon mansions connected to each other, and a garden that stretched farther than my eyes could make out. The paper map just left me disoriented, its countless interconnected rooms, passages, and floors feeling more like a labyrinth than the floor plans of a home. Inside this golden palace, the sheer degree of wealth only grew. Every door was covered in gold, every wall covered in marble or velvet, every ceiling a detailed painting of gods in the sky. Every room started to look the same as I weaved through this golden palace, and I ended up becoming genuinely lost. Versailles gold and splendor is so very extreme, it quickly became both visually and morally nauseating. 

When paying attention to the design and decoration of Versailles, the reasons and rationale behind why it is so lavish becomes startlingly clear. Simply put, the walls of Versailles seem to scream ‘let’s buy all the most expensive stuff and smash it together, even if it clashes or is visually overwhelming’. Versailles is patterns on patterns, it's overly detailed to the point where artistry can no longer be appreciated, it's overly decadent to the point of becoming tacky. From my artistic perspective Versailles is tasteless, but morally the palace is atrocious. 

Before bookpacking, my thoughts regarding Versailles would have been surface-level-both literally and metaphorically-a dislike of the stylistic and artistic choices made. But reading Les Miserables and A Tale of Two Cities changes my perspective completely, contextualizing both the lives of the aristocrat inside the palace and the suffering masses who starve outside its golden gates. Knowing what’s inside this golden palace makes me want to grab the shoulders of that “king with a large jaw”(Dickens pg. 11) and shake him. Dude, did your roof really need golden scaffolding? Did you really need to have a mind boggling and insanely expensive bedroom you only slept in three times? I mean, what in the world was the aristocracy thinking? Even when Louis tried to be a ‘man of the people’ to an attempt to sooth the rage of suffering French people, did he stop hunting, redistribute wealth in the slightest, or make literally any changes to his disgustingly lavish lifestyle? Nope!  

The sheer amount of pointless expenditures of gold and finery is frankly disgusting. In every golden doorknob, every crystal lamp, I see the suffering of the French people and what could have been. If Fantine had just one of those golden bars of the gate, she could have kept Cosette, wouldn’t have had to sell every part of her body and soul to survive, could have stayed alive. If Gavroche and the other street children had just one crystal from the countless chandeliers, they could have the security, stability, and safety all children fundamentally deserve. Heck, if Jean Valjean had just one of those golden doorknobs, was able to feed his seven nieces and nephews, and therefore was not incarcerated for 19 years, the events of Les Miserables wouldn’t have happened. Yes, these are all fictional characters, but the men, women, and children they represent were all very real. And if those starving masses depicted in A Tale of Two Cities had even a microscopic speck of the aristocracy's wealth, they wouldn’t have had to starve, suffer, and die. If this level of injustice and inequity never happened would the French Revolution have taken place at all? I truly don’t know. But in every bejeweled curtain cuff, in every velvet wall, in every gilded window frame-all I can think of is the starving children, and it makes me sick to my stomach.

The audacity to hoard this degree of wealth while the masses suffer in squall was not unique to the aristocracy, however, as the church was undeniably doing the same. When I first came to Europe, I was in awe of the sheer majesty of the first church we visited. Towering ceilings, engraved support beams, immaculate stained glass, there was so much detail and beauty packed into every corner. All I could do was be amazed in humanity's ability to construct this magnificent structure in an age before modern technological advances. But then we went to another glorious church, and another, and another. Glorious, rich, decadent churches just a ten minutes walking distance from each other. In Paris alone, there are fifty nine churches classified as historical monuments and are of this luxurious nature, meaning that for every half a square mile there is this behemoth of wealth. Religion preaches kindness, to help others, to alleviate suffering. How many people could have been given food, given shelter, given safety, if the wealth spent on the construction of just one of these churches was re-allocated? When visiting one of these churches, Professor Andrew shared a quote from Arthur Young’s thoughts upon seeing one of these grand churches, and his thought perfectly encapsulates my own feelings.

““I lose my Patience at the abuse of such wealth! Just a quarter of this income would establish a noble farm!-what turnips, what cabbages!-and are these things not better than a fat priest?”
”

— Arthur Young, 1787

Sure, have ONE big glorious church that everyone can visit and admire. But fifty-nine? Are you kidding me? And that's not even mentioning the fact that leaders in the church would have palaces and mansions of their own, in addition to numerous other expensive expenditures. Hoarding this degree of wealth while people around you starve and die is horrid, but was evidently common practice amongst the uber wealthy of historical France. 

Experiencing Paris through the perspectives of a Tale of Two Cities and Les Miserables has fundamentally changed how I would have otherwise thought about these historical monuments. Where I would have been in awe of the artistry, I’m now awed by the sheer audacity of these rich people of history. But the uncomfortable truth is that even today, the super wealthy continue to pull the same stunts. Jeff Bezos rents out Venice for his fifty-million dollar wedding, the rich fly to space in rocket ships, billionaires hoard more wealth than they could spend in their lifetime-all while their employees suffer unethical working conditions and the average person lives paycheck to paycheck. The parallels between the rich of the past and present are startling. It is crystal clear that there is an urgent need for change in modern society.

Gold-Plated Warnings: From Versailles to the United States

Upon traveling to Versailles, I am beyond ecstatic. There is so much to see, so much gold, so much beauty. When we arrived, I was instantly overwhelmed, but in the best way. We made a game plan to go through the rooms efficiently. But the sheer scale of it all made that nearly impossible. A group of four of my peers went ahead of me, and a group of four followed behind. I drifted in between, walking through room after room in awe. Each space was dripping in elegance, the gorgeous furniture, intricate architecture, dazzling chandeliers, and impossibly high ceilings with sculptures at the top. It was so easy to imagine what a life might have been here, centuries ago.

If I could time-travel, I'd want to attend a party at Versailles. I can picture it perfectly: thousands of candles flicker against gilded walls, elegant party goers in powdered wigs, silk, lipstick, and far too much blush. Servers would pass me with trays of hors d'oeuvres, chocolate, and champagne. Louis himself might even show me his jewels, medals, or the Mona Lisa. The next day, I'd wander around the gardens, next to the queen, reading a book while my kids play hide-and-seek. Around every corner is a new sculpture. A hidden path. A fountain I hadn't noticed before. I could explore for years and still discover new places daily. On the surface level, it's such a dream. 

I squeeze my way through the crowds. I'm alone now, and a bit claustrophobic. I pass the king's bedchamber, marveling at the space, when I overhear a tour guide casually mention that Louis XVI only slept in that bed three times. Three. Times. In 18 years. I pause. How could something so grand be used so little? Was it all for show? I felt deceived. She continues, saying he had a room solely for his dogs, and also had 413 beds around France. Holy. That's when it really hits me. All this sheer beauty had to come at the cost of extreme inequality throughout France.

If I were to time-travel, I probably wouldn't be a guest at one of those parties. Statistically, I would be a peasant, like 80% of people in pre-revolutionary France. I'd be living in a miserable mud cabin, working on someone else's land, paying 50% of my earnings to the landowner, and some in taxes to the government and church. I would most likely be starving, while the churches and royalty dined in excess. 

Victor Hugo captured this so well in Les Misérables. Although it takes place during the June Rebellion of 1832, after the French Revolution of 1789, the dynamics and society feel eerily similar. Fantine, once cheerful and full of life, is discarded by society so harshly that she's forced to sell her hair, teeth, and eventually her body. Just to survive. And then there's Gavroche—one of my favorites. A street-smart, scrappy boy who's homeless and forgotten, yet is somehow more attuned to justice than the adults around him. Sadly, both of them end up dead. Their lives are crushed under a system too broken to protect the innocent. 

If I were Gavorache, and I saw the kind of inequality I saw at Versailles, I'd be angry too. I'd build a barricade. I would fight. I walked through the Versailles gardens for a few hours, and didn't even see the whole thing. The extensive land, the numerous gold, the scale of it all seemed to be way too much.

It stopped and made me wonder: how much is too much? What brings a country to the edge?

When I look at the U.S. today, the cracks are hard to ignore. The top 1% owns as much as the bottom 90%. I can hike through Malibu in the morning and pass homes worth hundreds of millions, then spend the afternoon helping my roommates' club by handing out water on Skid Row. The inequality is so apparent. But it's not just economic. Trust in the media, government, and elections is plummeting. Elon Musk poured $260 million into the 2024 election to spread disinformation favorable to Republicans and critical of Democrats. Bezos literally rented out Venice for his wedding. A whole city. It makes sense that only 4% of U.S. adults say the system is working extremely or very well. With the elite living in a different world entirely, it feels less like a democracy and more like we are puppets in their performance.

Oval office before (right) and after (left) Trump took office

And now, two days ago, U.S. President Donald Trump revealed his plan for a $200 million addition to the White House. He has already blinged out the White House in gold, and now he wants to build a new ballroom. The design? Inspired by the Louis XIV room at Mar-a-Lago. Versailles called and they want their ballrooms back. The entire thing feels satire. While PBS funding is slashed and a billion dollars is cut in cancer research, we’re building gold-plated echoes of the French monarchy. I think Marie Antoinette would love Mar-a-Lago. The optics of spending hundreds of millions of dollars on presidential luxury echo the very detachment that once ignited revolution in France. It's not subtle. It's gold-plated foreshadowing. 

I left Versailles feeling conflicted. I stood where the Treaty of Versailles was signed. Such an important treaty. I was dazzled by the chandeliers and the luxurious gardens, but unsettled by what they represent. A warning. The history that tends to repeat when no one listens. 

Versailles reminded me that every society has a breaking point. When the elite grow more powerful and stop seeing those at the bottom, something eventually snaps. But if revolution comes, here or anywhere, we need to learn from Versailles. Bloodshed to this luxury is not the answer. I hope it's born of resistance rooted in empathy. I hope it looks like Gandhi, leading a country to freedom using non-violent civil disobedience. Let us choose unity and empathy over violence and revenge. More voices raised, fewer lives lost. 

We've already seen what can happen. We would be foolish not to learn from it.

To Be Loved

If there’s one thing that Les Misérables and my job have taught me, it’s that there is no greater gift than to be loved.

I work as a caregiver at a nursing home: every day, I help residents get out of bed, change, shower, and eat. We spend countless hours coloring together and strolling on the sidewalk, but I often feel like I don’t truly know a resident until I see them with their friends or family. Sometimes, residents are so excited about their children visiting that they tell me about it as soon as they open their eyes. Other times, they’re delightfully surprised! There was once an eighty-year old who kept to herself and wouldn’t move without being thoroughly persuaded. As soon as she saw her daughter, she swiftly stood to hug her. They embraced on the sidewalk outside the nursing home, smiles brighter than the summer sun.

Saint-Sulpice, from Colonel Pontmercy’s point of view

Some of the most impactful moments in Les Misérables occur when characters are deprived of this chance to be with their loved ones. Colonel Pontmercy and Jean Valjean, for example, are both tragically forbidden to be close to their children. In two touching scenes, both of these men are tantalizingly close to reuniting with their families - yet both decide to hold back because of the way they are perceived, one as a disgraced Bonapartist and one as a former convict. Throughout his novel, Hugo illustrates the painful breakdowns of familial relationships as a way to criticize the divisions created by society.

One of the most heart-rending relationships is that of Marius and his father, Colonel Pontmercy. Marius’ bourgeois grandfather, who saw Colonel Pontmercy’s service for Bonaparte as betrayal, threatens to disinherit Marius if the colonel continues to raise him. Forgotten and forsaken, Colonel Pontmercy chooses to stay away from his son, “believing he was doing the right thing and sacrificing no one but himself.” His one consolation is seeing Marius when he goes to mass at Saint-Sulpice. As the colonel gazes at his son, quietly concealed behind a pillar so that Marius’ family will not see, his eyes fill with tears.

One afternoon, we stand behind those very same pillars at Saint-Sulpice. They are unbelievably huge and strangely square. It’s the perfect place to conceal oneself: only one man, a warden of Saint-Sulpice, seems to notice the veteran’s sorrow. The chapel is dazzling in the daytime, grand and open and filled with light, but I imagine that Colonel Pontmercy barely saw the beauty within the chapel’s nave.

I’ve seen just how much the elderly people at my work treasure seeing their families, but it must be very bittersweet - few residents can leave on their own, so most are forced to watch their sons and daughters grow older with each visit, unable to play a part in the rest of their families’ lives. For Colonel Pontmercy, this dual joy and sadness must have been multiplied a hundredfold. From the pillar, the colonel would’ve had a perfect view of his son: the nave is wide and spacious, with chairs arranged neatly in the center. Marius would’ve been so close, yet just out of reach.

On the way to the Rue de l’Homme Armé - photo courtesy of Jake!

Later that week, we trace another touching scene. The sun shines warmly over us as we walk through the city from the Rue de l’Homme-Armé (now called the Rue des Archives) to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. These are Valjean’s last steps, taken during his self-imposed exile. After Cosette marries Marius, Valjean confesses his criminal past to his son-in-law, arousing Marius’ distrust and suspicion. Marius begins to keep his distance; in return, Valjean ventures to the couple’s home less and less. He slowly approaches their residence on the Rue des Filles-due-Calvaire… And then he stops. As he stares at his daughter’s street, “there was in that tragic gaze something that resembled the dazzling brilliance of the impossible and the reflection of an inaccessible paradise.”

He stands still for several minutes, a tear trickling down his cheek.

Then, he goes home, “by the same route, at the same pace, the light fading from his eyes as he moved away.”

When we bookpack Valjean’s path, I can’t help but notice how beautiful the neighborhood is. The sky is a pure, brilliant blue, illuminating the lovely cream-colored walls of the houses below. Every balcony railing is elegantly decorated. The street-lamps are delightfully old-fashioned, with black metal curled in sophisticated swirls. It’s sad to think of Valjean there, stock-still on a street corner. He would’ve been surrounded by so much color and light, all of which paled in comparison to the paradise denied to him. He stood so close to Cosette but couldn’t take the last few steps to her door.

Following in the footsteps of Valjean and Pontmercy makes me realize just how heartbreaking these moments are. How could they have been so close to their children - behind a pillar, or at the street corner - and still have been forced to turn away? Why did such good men have to make such great sacrifices? It’s almost cruel that the scenery was so beautiful; the neighborhood and chapel were so serene, despite both men’s inner strife.

“The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that you are loved, loved for yourself, better still, loved despite yourself.”

— Victor Hugo

Victor Hugo definitely plays into this drama, using descriptions like Valjean’s single tear and Pontmercy’s trembling stance to spark our outrage. We are shocked at how society has separated these men from their families. Because of a difference in political views, Marius’ family casts out the colonel. Because of an inborn contempt for criminals, Valjean is separated from the girl he saved. “The supreme happiness of life,” Hugo writes, “is the conviction that you are loved,” yet both Valjean and Colonel Pontmercy are deprived of this joy simply because of the labels that society has imposed on them.

At work, I don’t know most of the residents’ pasts. I know about some residents’ children and where they used to live, but most people don’t mention their work or what they were known for. That’s how it should be - every single one of these people deserve to be treated with humanity and compassion regardless of who they were before we met them.

Hugo reminds us of the danger of putting politics and policies before people. Tragically, it’s something we still do today - in the face of anger and injustice and hurt, I know it’s easy to forget that those around us still need the same compassion and forgiveness that we do. (When a resident yells at me, I have to fight every urge to change the way I care for them - trust me. I've been there.) But two final, crucial words shape Hugo’s claim: “The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that you are loved… despite yourself.” May we be loved, and may we show love, despite our views and our faults. May our differences never deprive us of our dignity.

“You who suffer because you love, love yet more.”

— Victor Hugo