The Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas

I recently undertook the onerous task of reading this mammoth tome that weighs in at a whopping 1460 pages, probably the longest book that I’ve ever read. Among my peers, the length of time taken to read novels is often cited as their reason for not reading much, and the immediacy of cinema, television and the internet tends to dominate people’s leisure time. In a culture obsessed with previews and spoilers, all we’re concerned about it seems is what happens and how it ends. It seems to me that the length of books is one of the great things about them – rather than a brief stroll you go on a journey with the world and the characters over the course of days, weeks and even months. Indeed, it seems a strange criticism to make given the current length of TV series that the same peers will devote themselves to. Regardless, I travelled with the Count for a long time, and I finally arrived too.

A common letdown with lengthy storylines is a failure to capitalize on the built up expectation and deliver that killer ending, that final knockout blow that leaves you stunned. Lord of the Rings didn’t do it for me, neither did Bone, Harry Potter was solid but not stellar, and Neon Genesis: Evangelion was a quagmire of existentialist navel gazing only partially rescued by the alternative ending. Still, Lone Wolf and Cub brought me to tears and Akira left me breathless so some do manage it.

Personally I can’t help thinking that Monte Cristo fell at this hurdle too. The whole book appears to be about not just revenge but revenge well-deserved, yet it wriggles out of this at the last minute and decides that in fact it’s about mystical providence dealing out people’s just desserts. In retrospect some signs were there, but it ultimately renders the book a touch hollow. Sure, providence is involved in giving him the chance and opportunity to avenge himself, but that’s simply the initial premise of the fiction. The glory of the book is the man wilfully and meticulously executing the downfall of his enemies and seeing the net slowly tighten towards the inevitable, sticky end. It’s the brilliance and daring of the man’s struggle and the sheer guilty pleasure of seeing someone utterly destroy their unjust persecutors that keeps you pushing on through the massive tome. The joy of his victory is what you expect at the end, but instead you are presented with an empty message of enfeeblement and modesty.

Was the journey enjoyable? Yes, very much so apart from a pretty dull 300 pages or so in Rome (I realise that 300 pages is basically a whole book, but strangely it doesn’t seem like that). Watching the plots, plans and positioning unfold slowly and inexorably was a smouldering (though not blazing) pleasure. However, the expectation of the pay-off at the end is what makes all these worthwhile and were you to lop off the beginning section that tells you it’s revenge then it would probably all be a bit boring. On reaching the compromised ending it immediately coloured my opinion of the preceding pages, yet I cannot deny that I was enjoying them greatly at the time which leaves me in a strange position.

Is the ending so important as to render the majority of the book redundant? Surely given the length of a book such as this, it’s the journey that’s more important and if I had to pick one it’s certainly the journey over the ending. We’ve all been told about a story “oh but make sure you get to the end, it’s great!” That’s nice, but you can’t just write a good ending and hope your reader makes it there because there’s a good chance they won’t – the journey has to be worth travelling as well. You don’t go on a long walk simply to get to the destination otherwise you’d just skip to the end, it’s just a shame that the last taste in your mouth is the most lingering and that a sour ending can spoil what was a great journey.

Personal Favourites: Akira & Dune

"After three days, fish and guests begin to stink" goes the curiously astute proverb. Being visited recently by some old friends evoked an unusual blend of emotions in me, one of which was that of otherworldly visitation. The world had turned since I last saw them and things had moved on. That earlier memory-existence superimposed itself onto the present while they’re there and vice versa, familiar faces appeared in unfamiliar settings, things have changed yet nothing has changed. The visitation shifts things for a few days and the collision of worlds and times is both exciting and unsettling. On the other hand, maybe it’s nothing more than a piss-up with good buddies.

I’ve been seeing old worlds a fair bit recently, re-reading some old books and comics, old favourites that is. There’s something safe and cozy in the prior knowledge that the book is going to be good, that in fact it’s going to be very good, which feels like slowly relaxing into a nice, hot bath. Comic books lend themselves to re-reading more than literature I suppose due to ease of reading. Bound-up graphics novels and trade paperbacks are inviting rather than intimidating, but a six-hundred page novel you’ve already read can seem like a slightly pointless mountain to climb. However, this highlights one of the things that we might forget from time-to-time: are we reading to find out what happens? To reach a destination? Or are we reading because the act of reading itself is pleasurable?

I recently read my battered copy of Frank Herbert’s Dune for the fourth or fifth time (I lose count) and each time I wander out onto the Funeral Plain I am reminded of just how much I enjoy reading this book and wonder why it has been so long since I last felt the Arrakis sand in-between my toes. The internal intrigues, strange technologies and stilted language create a world which I enjoy visiting and each time I flesh out their characters with increasing detail and familiarity. Another world I paid a repeat visit to was that of Katsuhiro Otomo’s post-apocalyptic Tokyo from his manga epic Akira, soaking up the cinematic spectacle and grandeur inked into every panel – the volumes of which are markedly less veteran-looking than my copy of Dune, because comics need taking care of after all. On the second read of a comic there’s a comfortable freedom of pace: I can whizz through it at breakneck pace, taking it in as an intravenous hit to a major artery, or I can take my time poring over it and savouring it. With books I can’t speed read like some can, I have to take a steady pace slow enough not to miss anything but fast enough not to lose momentum.

But do all stories warrant a second go? And if they don’t what does this say about them? With both of those examples I find it hard to pick a preference between the world-setting and the characters themselves. I wouldn’t go so far as to say those are both necessary to warrant a return, and while having both certainly helps I would suggest that the characters are the more important facet. I’m pretty sure great plot on its own with shallow characters just won’t warrant it for me, and that without good characters to sink my teeth into – be it in film, comics, or books – I probably just won’t care and invest enough to come back. So perhaps it’s the same for our stories as it is in life: it’s not about the where and the when and the how, but it’s the people and the characters that keep you coming back, the old friends. Perhaps.