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He is also preachy. This book is a series of sermons sandwiched between narrative. He is a poet who inflicts on his readers a maddening romantic history of the Paris sewer at a critical point in the plot. Like Dickens, his coincidences defy all plausible odds. I felt like docking Hugo a star for all these forms of "extravagence," but then decided, in the spirit of romanticism, to add an extra five and then take them away again, leaving a full complement. Only a person who has failed to grasp this book's essential greatness would discount it on account of such failings. Even the demerits of a work like this add something to its beauty, like the coloring in smoky quartz.
Hugo excells in description of character, mood, and aphorism. Here are a few of the latter: "The girl who knows herself to be pretty is less likely to become a nun, the sense of vocation varying inversely with the degree of beauty." "Skepticism, that dry-rot of the intellect, had left him without a whole thought in his head." "Two riches which the rich often lack -- work, which makes a man free, and thought, which makes him worthy of freedom." "They made the fatal blunder of mistaking the discipline of the soldier for the consent of the nation. These are the delusions that destroy thrones."
I took Hugo with me on a trip to China, and found him a very good traveling companion...
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