This book caught me off guard. For one I know the Disney movie made from the book so that set certain expectations. Also, this is written by the same dude who wrote Les Misérables. Which made me think he was probably just another rom-com author (joking). But in all seriousness this book started out a little slow for me. Victor Hugo was exiled from France, and it was apparent that he loved France as much as he hated Napoleon (fun fact in looking up how to spell Napoleon to make sure I was doing it right, it turns out napoleon dynamite is more popular on google than Napoleon Bonaparte). He spends about two hours describing the city of Paris as it was back in the 1500s. Frankly, I found this dry as it was hard to visualize because I am an idiot who doesn’t know very much about architecture. But as the book went on the tension kept growing. There is this scene in the book where a priest is in a room that overlooks Notre Dame, and he points at a book, and he says “This will destroy that” pointing at Notre Dame. This launches Victor Hugo into an hour-long discussion of how the invention of the printing press signaled the end of architecture. This was fascinating. As I said the book started off a little slow but like a good Tarantino movie by the end all these unrelated(ish) characters find themselves tangled in destiny like a fly in a spider web(imagery from the book). I don’t think I have read a book that had as much tragic irony as this one had. For the last 20% of the book, you really did feel like you really were watching a fly in a spider web.

One of the main reasons I read this book was because of this preface. Talk about a good sales pitch:

Ananke -defined

PREFACE. A few years ago, while visiting or, rather, rummaging about Notre-Dame, the author of this book found, in an obscure nook of one of the towers, the following word, engraved by hand upon the wall:— ἈΝÁΓΚΗ. These Greek capitals, black with age, and quite deeply graven in the stone, with I know not what signs peculiar to Gothic calligraphy imprinted upon their forms and upon their attitudes, as though with the purpose of revealing that it had been a hand of the Middle Ages which had inscribed them there, and especially the fatal and melancholy meaning contained in them, struck the author deeply. He questioned himself; he sought to divine who could have been that soul in torment which had not been willing to quit this world without leaving this stigma of crime or unhappiness upon the brow of the ancient church. Afterwards, the wall was whitewashed or scraped down, I know not which, and the inscription disappeared. For it is thus that people have been in the habit of proceeding with the marvelous churches of the Middle Ages for the last two hundred years. Mutilations come to them from every quarter, from within as well as from without. The priest whitewashes them, the archdeacon scrapes them down; then the populace arrives and demolishes them. Thus, with the exception of the fragile memory which the author of this book here consecrates to it, there remains to-day nothing whatever of the mysterious word engraved within the gloomy tower of Notre-Dame,—nothing of the destiny which it so sadly summed up. The man who wrote that word upon the wall disappeared from the midst of the generations of man many centuries ago; the word, in its turn, has been effaced from the wall of the church; the church will, perhaps, itself soon disappear from the face of the earth. It is upon this word that this book is founded. March, 1831.