With my wife and baby daughter gone for six weeks (!!) I
decided this period was my best chance to read the thickest book I had on my
shelves.
The Count of Monte Cristo
is one of the most gripping books I’ve
ever read – parts of it reminded me of Stevenson, others of Verne, and I
suspect quite a few would have reminded me of Hugo (this remains only a
suspicion because, erm, I’ve never actually read any Hugo). The vendetta is at
times a bit too prolonged, and I would honestly differentiate between the degree
of guilt of Fernando, Danglars, Villefort and Caderousse, but I don’t really
hold Dantès responsible for the death of young Edourad de Villefort
(much like Indiana Jones in Raiders of
the Lost Ark, Dantès plays no role in the outcome of this subplot).
However, for spellbinding that the book is, I really don’t
think this is great literature. It’s honestly just a bit too easy to read and
to follow (the only intimidating thing being the thickness of it in the end), I
never got even remotely confused by the plot or by the characters in it. As one
of my colleagues rightfully said, it’s probably just a book that used to be
low-brow and that is now considered to be high-brow because of the passage of
time and historical setting.
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