The ninth book that I’ve finished reading this year is Alexandre Dumas’ “The Count of Monte Cristo”. As a man on the brink of fulfilling all the promises of a felicitous life, Edmond Dantès was suddenly struck by a misfortune that separated him from the world for fourteen years. Once he re-emerges from his confinement, what will he do to avenge those that caused his sufferings?

To be honest, the sheer volume this book is enough to put off the reader; its thickness is equal to the length of my little finger. After repeatedly failing my personal goal of reading 100 pages per day until the last week, I finally accomplished this colossal task. As a book written in the 19th century, its language is relatively straightforward, made easier by long passages of dialogue. However, I still resorted to my old habit of keeping a vocabulary book, which is filled with names of different types of carriages, boats and accessories used by 19th century French people. Furthermore, readers unfamiliar with tales of Western origins, especially those of Greek and Roman mythology, may struggle to understand the allusions peppered across the story; luckily the translator, Robin Buss, included some rather detailed notes for our reference. Nonetheless, there are still some that remain to be elucidated (e.g. what is the genie of simoun?). That said, this book has generally been an enjoyable read; Dumas is definitely a skilled storyteller who knows how to control the pacing of narration and entice the reader to read on.

During the first 1/3 of the book, I discovered that it has a similar pattern to many Jin Yong kung-fu novels: the main character enters a secluded part of the world, meets a master who imparts to the main character all his/her knowledge and skills but who reaches a regretful end, then re-emerges from his/her isolation as an all-powerful master. Indeed, Jin Yong does admit that he has been influenced by Dumas’ work. However, there may be a difference between how they weave history with their own stories, but that is a topic for another day. The next 2/3 describes the long and intricate process of how Dantès lures his enemies into traps stemming from their own fallacies, seemingly playing the hand of God and plunging them into the abyss of misfortunes that they deserve. However, while reading, I could not help but ponder: what is the true meaning of revenge? Certainly, Dantès has not been happy all the while during the plotting and disguising; he has felt pain and misery, or rather, numbness as he built himself to become a resistant character to whatever he may encounter on his diabolic quest. After realising that the series of tragedies had gone out of hand, he even doubts whether he had the right to carry his actions this far. Surely to forgive under such circumstances would require the heart of a saint, but it is perhaps more conducive to focus on cultivating one’s own happiness rather than building it upon the suffering of others.

Another phenomenon that I found quite interesting is where people would sacrifice their lives to preserve their honour. The custom of challenging people to duels also puts one’s life on a thin thread, as it is entirely unpredictable when the act may come. This seems to be quite common in the ancient times, but would be anachronistic in today’s modern society. Perhaps this social change may suggest that individuals have started to redefine their priorities, and that the honour of the family, something that is much less tangible than human life, is no longer attached such importance. Of course, there are still honour killings as described in Marquez’s “Chronicles of a Death Foretold”, but hopefully considerably less than that in the past.

In general, I would recommend this book to readers old and young as it had been an enjoyable (though lengthy) read. From a historical point of view, it has also been interesting to learn the conventions of the 19th century European aristocratic society (though their lifestyles are rather unhealthy, staying up late into the night to attend balls and smoking cigars accompanied with excessive wine) and some trivia about the smuggling business. If you’d like to embark on a journey to 19th century Europe, mixed with a heavy tint of Orientalism, this book will not disappoint you.