I have come to realize that even though I keep reading Les Miserables, I will NEVER finish! It's like that non-real-world math problem of the person trying to get across the room by taking steps that are half as long as the step he previously took and technically would never reach the other side of the room, only approaching infinitely close to the opposite side.
(Read this next part to the Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop theme, "This is the Song That Never Ends)
This is the book that never ends,
it just goes on and on my friends.
V Hugo starting writing it, not knowing what it was,
And he'll continue adding words
EVEN THOUGH HE'S TOTALLY DEAD.
Really, book. Stop already!
Everyone is falling over themselves crowing about how wonderful the movie is. I've seen the musical once a while ago and boy, did the musical people cut a lot out of the book stuff out and rearranged and condensed the story. BIG TIME. Maybe if Victor had envisioned the musical first, he would have saved himself many hours of writing and philosophizing and educating (about slang, about the Parisian sewers, about nunneries, about Waterloo, about I-can't-remember-what-else-because-I-skipped-over-it-the-second-I-realized-that-no-action-was-going-to-take-place) and just concentrated the story parts, which are just fine and would be totally readable and pleasant on their own, he probably would have had more time to enjoy life. Maybe go on several picnics, have the in-laws over for baguettes and wine (did he have in-laws?), or maybe even learn to paint.
My appreciation of classic literature such as this is in real danger of being overshadowed with irritation regarding length and the non-essentialness of 75% of the chapters in this book.
Mother, I'm totally going to take your advice and read something else before I pick up Hunchback of Notre Dame. I think I'll read several something elses. Maybe an infinity of something elses.