(DISCLAIMER: Les Misérables owns me. Not the other way around.)
My brothers, like angels, shining and pure, / Stand atop the barricade, watching over Paris. / They have memorized the view that darkness will obscure / When the reign of fire
Forgive me. I shall continue in prose hereon. What with cannons exploding, men shouting, and gunpowder flinging sparks all around me, not to mention my own abdominal flutterings and shaking hands, I can not concentrate on meter and rhyme. It would be folly in these penultimate moments to poetically express what's on my mind, for poetry, in my extensive experience, is unfathomable and ambiguous, and I must be understood. All I need is to scribble, trap everything safely on paper, and then perhaps I may rest in peace.
"Brothers till the very end, whatever it may be," Combeferre used to always say. If Enjolras is the one securing the battle plans and preparing the people to fight, Combeferre is the one who most ardently cared that we remain true to each other. It is Combeferre who works to smooth over any crevasses that might form in our friendships, who constantly reminds us of our admiration and affection for each other. Whenever he talks of brotherhood, he drapes his arm fondly over any one of us, and gazes at us warmly with his usually contemplative hazel eyes. Most of us are indulgent to his fits of tenderness, and pat his arm gingerly until he removes it. Enjolras, however, stiffens his shoulders and shrugs off Combeferre, never meeting his eyes.
Courfeyrac always jokes that the reason Enjolras despises sentimentality is because he has no sentiment. I, however, would beg to differ. I believe that it is because Enjolras has so much love for us that he is unable to show it; his golden, Apolloesque pride will not allow it. He believes it would be hypocritical of him, after all his preaching of letting go of earthly attachments and dedicating oneself entirely to the people, to give himself over to close friendship. I admire Enjolras - his unwavering chastity, his dedication, his passion for justice - more than anyone in the world. He is my idol, my captain, my king (though I daresay he would flinch disgustedly if he heard me referring to him as a "king"!) . . . and yet I pity him. He has found the courage in his heart to sacrifice everything that is of value to any other twenty-two year old man, all for a noble cause he will never see in practice in his lifetime. I wish that for one moment, he would abandon his icy, clipped, driven exterior, and indulge the simple, human Enjolras, who, like the rest of us, only needs companionship. I wonder if he wishes the same. Yet, to imagine Enjolras with a full goblet of wine, laughing at one of Grantaire's observations or congratulating Courfeyrac at wooing his latest mistress into bed . . . I can not fully form the image in my mind.
Bossuet and Joly bring cheer and eccentricity to our circle; Courfeyrac and Marius, humor and manners; Bahorel and Feuilly, impulse and worldliness; Grantaire . . . oh, Grantaire. I do know know whether or not to name him as un ami, for our circle revolves around Enjolras, and Enjolras is repulsed and disgusted by the poor inebriate. It is plain to see that Grantaire loves, adores, and worships Enjolras, perhaps more even than the rest of us. Once again, as in so many myths and love stories, we see the uncanny phenomenon of opposite attraction. Enjolras stands for order and civilization, while Grantaire lies drunk on the street, singing bawdy ballads in his sleep. Grantaire has no beliefs or ideals, while Enjolras endeavors to free all the Earth. There is little left in Grantaire's existence, whereas Enjolras is bursting with morals, compassion, and drive. In fact, I believe therein lies the key. Grantaire needs Enjolras. Needs him in order to complete his own being.
Still, his own insecurities notwithstanding, Grantaire has always been a true and loyal friend to us. Certainly, his colossal drunken rants become irritating, and he does nothing but tease us all about our believes and naïve idealism, but he is well-meaning and surprisingly eloquent. He is infinitely good-natured, and never pouts when he is brushed aside and rejected. Yes, Grantaire is one of us. Grantaire is my brother . . . till the very end, whatever it may be.
I have named each of my friends, and what roles they play in our circle of amis. But which am I? The shy, blushing one who observes happenings from behind a leather-bound volume of verse? The melancholy dreamer who pores over human emotion, writes odes to his mistress' eyes, and sheds tears over the death of a rose? Grantaire used to forever tease me for my romanticism, calling me "the pretty little poet," or, if he was feeling feisty, "Mademoiselle Jehan." Dear, dear Grantaire. It is true that throughout my life, I have maintained an interest in poetry, but there are other things that are more important to me. Nine come to mind.
If I was at sea, I could seal this manuscript in a bottle and send it off, to be discovered by some swarthy rum enthusiast on a desert isle, but I shall have to satisfy myself with leaving this journal on the streets of Paris. This is the end: of my reflections, and perhaps of my life. I comfort myself that I would not have done a thing differently.
"Brothers till the very end," Combeferre says now to Enjolras. "If this is the end, so be it. I will not forsake you now." His eyes reflect love and questioning, curious as to what Enjolras' reaction will be as he opens his arms. Enjolras stiffens as usual, but then, his exquisite lips curving into a tender smile, abandons decorum, throws his arms around Combeferre, and joins him in a loyal embrace.
My brothers, like angels, shining and pure, / Stand atop the barricade, watching over Paris. / They have memorized the view that darkness will obscure / When the reign of fire
Forgive me. I shall continue in prose hereon. What with cannons exploding, men shouting, and gunpowder flinging sparks all around me, not to mention my own abdominal flutterings and shaking hands, I can not concentrate on meter and rhyme. It would be folly in these penultimate moments to poetically express what's on my mind, for poetry, in my extensive experience, is unfathomable and ambiguous, and I must be understood. All I need is to scribble, trap everything safely on paper, and then perhaps I may rest in peace.
"Brothers till the very end, whatever it may be," Combeferre used to always say. If Enjolras is the one securing the battle plans and preparing the people to fight, Combeferre is the one who most ardently cared that we remain true to each other. It is Combeferre who works to smooth over any crevasses that might form in our friendships, who constantly reminds us of our admiration and affection for each other. Whenever he talks of brotherhood, he drapes his arm fondly over any one of us, and gazes at us warmly with his usually contemplative hazel eyes. Most of us are indulgent to his fits of tenderness, and pat his arm gingerly until he removes it. Enjolras, however, stiffens his shoulders and shrugs off Combeferre, never meeting his eyes.
Courfeyrac always jokes that the reason Enjolras despises sentimentality is because he has no sentiment. I, however, would beg to differ. I believe that it is because Enjolras has so much love for us that he is unable to show it; his golden, Apolloesque pride will not allow it. He believes it would be hypocritical of him, after all his preaching of letting go of earthly attachments and dedicating oneself entirely to the people, to give himself over to close friendship. I admire Enjolras - his unwavering chastity, his dedication, his passion for justice - more than anyone in the world. He is my idol, my captain, my king (though I daresay he would flinch disgustedly if he heard me referring to him as a "king"!) . . . and yet I pity him. He has found the courage in his heart to sacrifice everything that is of value to any other twenty-two year old man, all for a noble cause he will never see in practice in his lifetime. I wish that for one moment, he would abandon his icy, clipped, driven exterior, and indulge the simple, human Enjolras, who, like the rest of us, only needs companionship. I wonder if he wishes the same. Yet, to imagine Enjolras with a full goblet of wine, laughing at one of Grantaire's observations or congratulating Courfeyrac at wooing his latest mistress into bed . . . I can not fully form the image in my mind.
Bossuet and Joly bring cheer and eccentricity to our circle; Courfeyrac and Marius, humor and manners; Bahorel and Feuilly, impulse and worldliness; Grantaire . . . oh, Grantaire. I do know know whether or not to name him as un ami, for our circle revolves around Enjolras, and Enjolras is repulsed and disgusted by the poor inebriate. It is plain to see that Grantaire loves, adores, and worships Enjolras, perhaps more even than the rest of us. Once again, as in so many myths and love stories, we see the uncanny phenomenon of opposite attraction. Enjolras stands for order and civilization, while Grantaire lies drunk on the street, singing bawdy ballads in his sleep. Grantaire has no beliefs or ideals, while Enjolras endeavors to free all the Earth. There is little left in Grantaire's existence, whereas Enjolras is bursting with morals, compassion, and drive. In fact, I believe therein lies the key. Grantaire needs Enjolras. Needs him in order to complete his own being.
Still, his own insecurities notwithstanding, Grantaire has always been a true and loyal friend to us. Certainly, his colossal drunken rants become irritating, and he does nothing but tease us all about our believes and naïve idealism, but he is well-meaning and surprisingly eloquent. He is infinitely good-natured, and never pouts when he is brushed aside and rejected. Yes, Grantaire is one of us. Grantaire is my brother . . . till the very end, whatever it may be.
I have named each of my friends, and what roles they play in our circle of amis. But which am I? The shy, blushing one who observes happenings from behind a leather-bound volume of verse? The melancholy dreamer who pores over human emotion, writes odes to his mistress' eyes, and sheds tears over the death of a rose? Grantaire used to forever tease me for my romanticism, calling me "the pretty little poet," or, if he was feeling feisty, "Mademoiselle Jehan." Dear, dear Grantaire. It is true that throughout my life, I have maintained an interest in poetry, but there are other things that are more important to me. Nine come to mind.
If I was at sea, I could seal this manuscript in a bottle and send it off, to be discovered by some swarthy rum enthusiast on a desert isle, but I shall have to satisfy myself with leaving this journal on the streets of Paris. This is the end: of my reflections, and perhaps of my life. I comfort myself that I would not have done a thing differently.
"Brothers till the very end," Combeferre says now to Enjolras. "If this is the end, so be it. I will not forsake you now." His eyes reflect love and questioning, curious as to what Enjolras' reaction will be as he opens his arms. Enjolras stiffens as usual, but then, his exquisite lips curving into a tender smile, abandons decorum, throws his arms around Combeferre, and joins him in a loyal embrace.