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. 

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.

Not just angry men...

"Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men? It is the music of the people who will not be slaves again!" I hum the lyrics as we walk through the Conciergerie. We read Les Misérables by Victor Hugo before the trip, and saw the musical last week. Claude-Michel Schönberg, the songwriter who wrote these incredible lyrics, is so intelligent, so masterful that I want to immerse myself in his music.

As I pass a sign titled "Femmes en Révolution," I am still softly singing. 

"Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men-" 

Wait. Just angry men?

Right in front of me are memorials for women who lost their lives in the revolution. Just yesterday, we learned about the Women's March on Versailles, where a crowd of Parisian women, concerned about the high price and scarcity of bread, marched to Versailles. They demanded reforms to the king and brought him back to Paris. It was one of the earliest and most significant events of the French Revolution. Yet, the song seemed to sideline the role of women in these revolutions. 

Schönberg wrote the lyrics about the June Rebellion (1832), but the tune has come to represent the revolutionary spirit more broadly. So, where are women in that spirit? 

In the courtyard of the women's prison, I'm stunned by the beauty: stone walls, open sky, even a fountain to wash clothes. If I didn't know its history, I would think it was a town! But this place held women awaiting execution. These political prisoners have stories that deserve to be heard.

I first read about Charlotte Corday. She believed the French Revolution was getting out of hand and becoming too bloody. She entered Jean-Paul Marat's home, an extreme leader of the Jacobins, and killed him in his bathtub, hoping to stop the violence. I don't condone murder, and I can't fully judge her; none of us can, but I understand her desperation. She was angry. And she put matters into her own hands.

Then there's Olympe de Gouges, a French playwright and political activist. She wrote vehemently, attacking the Revolutionary government during the Reign of Terror. She wrote The Declaration of the Rights of Women in 1791, in response to the Declaration of the Rights of Man written in 1781. She demanded equality in marriage, education, and political life. She was angry and refused to stay quiet. She published works accusing Robespierre of establishing a dictatorship. For that, she was executed.

The next day, we visited the Chapelle Expiatoire, a controversial place where King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette were buried after being guillotined. Yet, I find myself coming back to Olympe de Gouges when I see her quote in the building: 

““The most extravagant assure that my works do not belong to me, that there is too much energy and knowledge of the laws in my writings for them to be the work of a woman.” ”

— Olympe de Gouges

Even in her death, she had to fight for authorship of her own mind. The prejudice to discredit her abilities is appalling to me. Did men not think a woman could be intelligent? Insightful? Creative? I would be mad too. 

Of course, one cannot talk about angry women in the revolution and forget Madame Defarge from A Tale of Two Cities. After the aristocratic Evrémonde brothers destroy her family, she becomes consumed by vengeance. She even cuts the governor's head off with a knife. Talk about bloodshed and anger. 

We see her anger when she knits names into her death list. Yet, the same outrage brings her to her downfall. She dies trying to kill Lucie, who is barely associated with the aristocrats at all. Dickens shows readers that responding to evil with evil can have devastating consequences. 

Women, whether supporting the revolution or not, whether fictional or not, played a vital role in the revolutions of their time. They sing the song of angry women. We must've forgotten that in the chorus somewhere. 

One may argue that "angry men" is a stand-in for all people. But history shows us that not only are women underrepresented in their importance, but also when they are not named, they are often erased. 

And the erasure didn't end with the 18th century. French women couldn't vote until 1944. Switzerland was in 1971. Private members' clubs in London, including Brooks's Club, a Whig-affiliated club founded in 1778, still do not admit women. It's easy to think we've come a long way. And we have. But the reminders of inequality are everywhere.

Guerrilla Girls art at the Tate Modern London

Yes, I'm grateful I can vote. But then Roe v. Wade gets overturned.

I'm so grateful I can open a credit card. But I'll still earn 85 cents to the dollar a man makes, for the same work. 

I'm so lucky to have the privilege of access to higher education. So how are doctors still less likely to recognize heart attacks in women? 

Material mortality rates are horrible, including the fact that black women have a three times higher maternal mortality rate than white women. Trans women of color are disproportionately victims of violence, and missing Indigenous women go uncounted and unsearched for. The systems that are supposed to protect us? They fail us. 

Don't get me wrong. I love my country. But because I love it, I will criticize it. I will demand it live up to its promises of justice and liberty for all. 

So yes, I hear the men singing. 

But I'm learning to hear the women, past and present, who refused to stay silent. 

Because we are singing. Louder and louder. And one day, they won't just hear it. They'll have to listen.

Fauna and Fiction: Reading Birds Through Dickens

Sitting along Regent's Canal on our day off, I was working through the day's reading assignment from A Tale of Two Cities. At this point in the novel, Charles Darnay has been imprisoned for one year and three months. Lucie, his wife, learns from her father that Darnay can sometimes get access to an upper prison window at three in the afternoon. Every day for two hours, Lucie waits outside that window, often with her daughter, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. She's even tormented by a wood-sawyer, who taunts her, pretending to cut people's heads off.

Just as I was engrossed in this moment, a loud group passed me, snapping me out of the plot (I've never been good at reading through noise). As I wait for them to walk by, I notice a raft of coots (birds similar to ducks), floating along the canal. There were two adults and six babies. Usually, waterfowl don't grab my attention since I often see them at home. But the water was so strikingly clear, and the birds were so close that I could see their webbed feet paddling furiously beneath the surface. Yet above the water? Completely serene. It was like the avian equivalent of running a marathon while keeping a calm composure. And right in front of my eyes, I saw Lucie Manette in these Coots.

If the characters from A Tale of Two Cities were birds, Lucie Manette would undoubtedly be a Coot. Throughout her life, she exudes calm, quiet strength. So much strength and a nurturing ambiance that three men want to marry her in the early chapters. But beneath that composed exterior, she carries immense emotional weight. She lost her son, spent most of her life believing her father was dead, only to find him in a broken state, and faces the imprisonment of her husband. Like the coot, she is constantly in motion beneath the surface, doing all she can to keep herself and those afloat. Occasionally, we get a glimpse through the clear water, and we can see how hard things are. When learning that her husband is imprisoned (for the first time), she had "fallen into a stupor on the floor". While we don't always have clear water, I know that she is the coot paddling hard, even when she seems calm. 

After finishing my chapter, I walked through Regent's Park. I saw a man with a striking Hyacinth Macaw wandering around the park. The Macaw would fly in a circle around the park, then perch on his arm. Looking back, he embodies Charles Darney. Macaws can fly freely, but they're also creatures of captivity. Sometimes they soar, and sometimes they are caged. At this point in the book, Darney has been released from prison, only to be re-arrested shortly after. His brief freedom feels like the Macaw's flight through the park. It was exhilarating and beautiful to be reunited with his wife, but the reunion was inevitably short-lived. The hyacinth macaw itself is a vulnerable species, but tragically, many other macaws, including the Spix Macaw (featured in Rio), are almost extinct. This is due to habitat loss, climate change, and exploitation through the exotic pet trade. Its uncertain future mirrors Darnay's, because at this part of the book, I was unsure if Darnay would live. While Darney's future is predetermined, I will do my best to prevent the macaws from going extinct in my lifetime.

Earlier in the week, I stumbled upon a lone swan in the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. Quick backstory on swans: There is a noble tale that a mother swan gave birth to a brood of young chicks. As they grew up, they became violent toward the mother and attempted to peck her eyes out. In anger, she retaliates, killing her young. After three days, she regrets her actions and lets her blood drip on the young. They revive, and she dies. I'm sure you can see the symbolism of Jesus here, but there is also symbolism with Sydney Carton. After finishing A Tale of Two Cities, I found out that Carton died in place of Darnay, choosing to do so because he loved Lucie, Darnay's wife. He sacrificed his life because of his love for Lucie. His death is a form of resurrection, the same as the swans was.

Birds have always been a part of my life. My parents and grandparents taught me to notice and appreciate the world around me, especially birds. This love led me to volunteer at the World Bird Sanctuary, a role I have held for the past three years. One of the birds that has touched me deeply is the American Crow, also known as Aesop. 

Aesop earned her name through being the "soppy crow". She had an obsession with baths, taking as many as seven a day. But she was more than her quirks. She was brilliant; she learned how to recycle, paint on canvases, and even accept donations. If there were a lull in donations, she would stick her head in the bin, remove a bill, make eye contact with me, redonate the bill, and demand a reward. Aesop passed away a couple of weeks ago, and I still feel the weight of her absence.

Now, Katie, what does any of this have to do with A Tale of Two Cities? I'm so glad you asked. Not only do I see birds in the characters of A Tale of Two Cities, but I also see the author. On a visit to Charles Dickens' home, I learned something rather funny. Not only was he the first person to install a shower in his house rather than a bath, but he also had a pet Raven named Grip. Although ravens are slightly different from crows, both are remarkably intelligent and known for their personalities. In many ways, Charles Dickens embodies Aesop the American Crow through being social, clever, and craving connections. Aesop craved connection. She loved back scratches from her favorite people. Dickens, considered a reformer of his time, often gave public readings of his work, seeking to engage directly with his audience. May they both rest peacefully, having brought such joy to those who knew them and their work.

As I think about the birds I've seen, I'm in awe of how seamlessly the birds can fly into the pages of Dickens's world and mine. Whether it was the coot's quiet endurance, the Macaw's fragile freedom, the swan's selfless sacrifice, or the crow's cleverness, each creature revealed something more human than expected. Literature and nature aren't all that different. They teach us to notice what moves beneath the surface, and to find meaning in every flutter, silence, and sacrifice.

A Tale of Two Perspectives

I had the privilege of visiting London for the first time three years ago today, and stepping into Westminster Abbey feels remarkably different now than it did then. Here, the lines between fiction and reality blur. This Monday, standing before Charles Dickens' final resting place brought an unexpected stillness and serenity. Serenity for a man who gave life to so many characters, so many corners of the human soul. 

To be buried in such hallowed ground, despite being someone who held no strong religious faith, alongside luminaries like Stephen Hawking, is in itself its own kind of testament - a secular sainthood. I believe that graves are meant to anchor memory, yet Dickens barely needs that - his stories endure. Still, standing there, I didn't think only of the legacy he left behind, but the stories we lost. The Mystery of Edwin Drood was left unfinished, mid-thought, at fifty-eight. Three years ago, I might've moved on quickly. Today? I find myself quietly grieving, not for the man but for the unwritten.

Charles Dickens Grave, Westminster Abbey

Stephen Hawking Grave, Westminster Abbey

As we left Westminster, we passed a protest led by military veterans. Curious, we asked what they were protesting for, and I learned about Soldier F. This British soldier shot and killed two people in Northern Ireland during Bloody Sunday, and attempted to kill five others. My first instinct was simple. Justice should be served. If those victims had been people I loved, I would want accountability. But one of the Veterans reminded us that Bloody Sunday happened half a century ago, and charges have already been dropped four times. Suddenly, my perspective shifted. What if it were someone I loved on trial, being pulled back into something from fifty-two years ago? The past is rarely settled, and perhaps not everything can be cleanly resolved. It was the first of many moments that week that reminded me that truth can have two opposing views.

On Tuesday, as I walked past the Old Bailey Courthouse, I felt a tangle of emotions. On one hand, this is where Charles Darnay was granted his freedom in A Tale of Two Cities. But it's not all sunshine. Real people once stood trial here for crimes as minor as theft and were sentenced to death. In this very courthouse, since 1674, one person might win their life back, while another could be crushed by the weight of this corrupt law. And that person might've been someone's child. Someone's entire world. I feel conflicted. Do I marvel at a literary scene made real, or mourn at the very real pain it mirrors?

“his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honor to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards.”

— Dickens, ATOTC

Old Bailey Courthouse

Wednesday, from Borough Market, we make our way to London Bridge, past the steps where Nancy was murdered in Oliver Twist, and soon we're standing next to the Golden Hinde. Albeit not a Dickensian landmark, we pause anyway. I learned it was an English ship that captured a vast silver shipment from the Spanish and evaded pursuit, taking three years to circle the globe. As Britain fought off the Spanish, it would eventually help England claim its stake in the New World, laying the groundwork for my existence. 

But next to me was a classmate whose parents immigrated from Spain. They might see this tale as something entirely different - a moment of loss, of conquest. And yet here we both are, looking at the outside of this replica ship, two perspectives shaped by the same history, yet standing on opposite sides.

Thursday, at the Dickens Museum, the house where he lived from 1837 to 1839, I find myself gravitating towards a volunteer named Mally. We talked for a while, and I learned that Dickens had ten children, and adored them in their infancy, but was a very neglectful father. He sent his sons to boarding schools and didn't bother to bring them back for Christmas. And yet here we are, curating his teaspoons, dinnerware, writing desk, and in my case, even his piano. 

He wasn't a saint. Not always kind. However, he wrote with a profound understanding of society and challenged the status quo. Funnily, maybe that's enough?

On Friday, we passed the site where Mary Ann Nichols, the first of Jack the Ripper's victims,  was murdered. As someone who is fascinated by mysteries, I've always been intrigued by the Ripper's unknown identity. However, in our seminar, I learned about the book "The Untold Lives of the Women Killed by Jack the Ripper" by Hallie Rubenhold. Rubenhold reframes the story by not hunting the killer, but by honoring the women whose lives were reduced to the manner of their deaths. Until that moment, I hadn't considered how much focus we place on the mystery, and how little on humanity. Her work reminded me that history, like fiction, can be told through many lenses. Who we choose to center in history matters. 

We also visited Dennis Severs' House, where I stepped into a world lit only by candlelight and layered with silence, scent, and suggestion. It was the closest I've felt to experiencing the 18th and 19th centuries from the inside out. I was able to see what a Dickens character might have seen and hear what they might have heard. It made me appreciate something as simple as electricity in a way I hadn't before. 

Hours later, I stood at Horizon 22, looking out over the entire city from above. London stretched endlessly in all directions. Lives were intersecting, stories unfolding, each window its own point of view. It struck me: every person I could see from that height carries their own lens. Their own story. Their own unfinished novel.

We can read the same books, walk the same streets, and stand before the identical gravestones, but we each carry our own lens. History doesn't change, but our perspective, and the perspective of the person telling it, does. That could be the gift of travel, of literature, of growing older. We have the chance to return to the same places and see something new. That's the gift of bookpacking.

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.”

— Anaïs Nin