“Yes, Monsieur. I am one of those exceptional beings and I believe that, before today, no man has found himself in a position similar to my own. The kingdoms of kings are confined, either by mountains or rivers, or by a change in customs or by a difference of language; but my kingdom is as great as the world, because I am neither Italian, nor French, nor Hindu, nor American, nor a Spaniard; I am a cosmopolitan. No country can claim to be my birthplace. God alone knows in what region I shall die. I adopt every custom, I speak every tongue. You think I am French, is that not so? Because I speak French as fluently and as perfectly as you do. Well, now. Ali, my Nubian, thinks me an Arab. Bertuccio, my steward, takes me for a Roman. Haydée, my slave, believes I am Greek. In this way, you see, being of no country, asking for the protection of no government and acknowledging no man as my brother, I am not restrained or hampered by a single one of the scruples that tie the hands of the powerful or the obstacles that block the path of the weak. I have only two enemies: I shall not say two conquerors, because with persistence I can make them bow to my will: they are distance and time. The third and most awful is my condition as a mortal man. Only that can halt me on the path I have chosen before I have reached my appointed goal. Everything else is planned for. I have foreseen all those things that men call the vagaries of fate: ruin, change and chance. If some of them might injure me, none could defeat me. Unless I die, I shall always be what I am.”
That monologue? That energy? That aura? That’s the kind of thing we’re working with here. Here with…
I have had what I would call a mixed-bag relationship with classic literature throughout my life. Obviously, many of the quote “classics” deserve to be heralded as the touchstones of literature that they are. Then there’s a whole lot in the middle ground—things that did something first, did it well, but have been outdone by their successors. And then finally, there are books that just make me question why something was ever seen as a classic and seem to be just a mess from the go… (cough) Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand (cough) … yeah.
But in my own personal experience, I’ve found a vast majority of quote classic works to be somewhere in the middle. Good, enjoyable, have issues, they’ve certainly aged (no matter how much some people try to deny that).
All that is to say: I went into The Count of Monte Cristo with the expectation it would be somewhere in the middle. So it’s a pretty big deal that I’m coming out of it with the belief that … This might be the greatest book I’ve ever read.
Note: I did not say favorite. I’m being careful with my choice of words there. But it damn well might be the greatest.
And in two distinct ways, The Count of Monte Cristo earns that title equally.
The experience of reading The Count of Monte Cristo is such an epic, inspiring adventure that it manages to make our own world feel so big, vibrant, lively, tumultuous(!), that even though it is maybe the biggest book I have ever read, coming in at nearly half a million words, I was turning the pages eagerly from start to finish.
It’s huge. It’s indulgent. It’s dramatic. It’s sometimes proto–soap opera. People are fainting left and right. Men are throwing gloves at each other. And I kind of love it. Because it works.
The second - and arguably just as important - angle is how effectively The Count of Monte Cristo encapsulates the time period it was written in, and functions as a character study that is, lowkey, in the loosest terms possible, inspired by a real person: the author’s father.
Honestly, it’s more accurate to say The Count of Monte Cristo is a fantasy of Alexandre Dumas about the revenge he wishes his father could have had, while also being a blistering indictment of the ruling class of France in the wake of political turmoil: the revolution, the fall and rise and fall of royalty again and again, and the mythologizing of Napoleon who, when all was said and done, was still just a tyrant. An incredible tyrant, sure - but a corrupt egotistical man and nothing more.
But okay. Before we get into all that, let’s set up the surface-level question:
The story starts with Edmond Dantès: an up-and-coming sailor in France. He’s set to marry the baddest woman in town, Mercédès. His career is about to take off.
And Edmond is put forth as an all-around good man: intelligent, capable, kind, genuinely deserving of the success he is finding, despite the failing of the society he exists in.
That failing shows itself immediately, in the three men who plot to take Edmond down.
They frame him as working for Napoleon (or being a Napoleonic sympathizer) at a time where Napoleon is vanquished. Vamoose.
1) Fernand Mondego Mercédès’s cousin. Motivated by love and jealousy because he wants Edmond out of the picture so he can… you know. It’s from this time period. So yeah. He’s also just a bad man. Personality-wise, he is the antithesis of everything that makes Edmond admirable throughout the whole story.
2) Danglars Motivated by professional jealousy and ambition. He resents Edmond’s forthcoming promotion to captain. He hates that Dantès is accomplishing more than him materially.
And this is the man that, once Edmond returns as the Count, he has to take down financially first - and that’s a fascinating foil.
3) (Villefort / “for Sarus”) I cannot say nor spell French names. I’m highly dyslexic and I apologize (I’m more than sure there are typos in this post).
Conceptually, the most interesting betrayal. He’s present when Fernand and Danglars scheme, doesn’t really do anything to stop it. Even when the police show up to Edmond’s wedding and arrest him, he’s basically cowed into silence: “If you vouch for him, they’ll say you’re a Napoleon sympathizer too.”
He represents the selfishness promoted within this society: self-preservation, despite all these religious beliefs thrown around left, right, up, and down actually being people’s number one priority.
If you read The Count of Monte Cristo, please pay close attention to how these three men develop in parallel to Edmond.
Because of these men’s actions, our above-average Joe ends up tossed in France’s Alcatraz.
Actually worse - because in Alcatraz they didn’t permanently confine you to solitary confinement. At least not by default.
Edmond is thrown deep, deep, deep down in the darkest part, kept in solitude for six whole years before madness begins to take hold. He even begins to… no longer want to be here, if you get what I’m saying (🪢😵), and starts starving himself.
And here’s the thing:
This long stretch - what could have been a very boring time in the initiating incident - might actually be my favorite section of the entire book.
Especially for the time it was written, this is the most psychologically profound part of the book. No question.
It comes from an informed perspective on the effects of severe isolation. It’s ahead of its time in sympathy toward prisoners and the severe overpunishment so common at the time.
And one could fairly speculate that the reason it feels so informed is because of Dumas’s father.
Not Alexandre - his father, Thomas.
Thomas worked his way up from being a slave to essentially the top of the military. He was the highest-ranking Black man in Europe at the time.
On a voyage home, he was shipwrecked in enemy territory and thrown in prison for two years. It devastated him: partially paralyzed, partially blind. He even claimed someone attempted to poison him.
And the French - despite him being so high-ranking - did not do nearly enough to get him out.
You’d think he’d have powerful allies who would move heaven and earth.
“Should we help him?”
“Um… maybe we can do it later.”
In the book, after six whole years, Edmond gets a friend.
He hears scritch-scratching in his cell until someone digs a hole into his solitary confinement.
And no, it’s not pro–French Revolution groups. It’s… Italian Batman.
Or Italian Aristotle? Da Vinci?.. doesn’t matter… He meets a genius: Abbé Faria (again, French names from memory… yikes (spelling is not my game)).
A brilliant scholar thrown in prison under dubious circumstances. He claims to know the location of a great treasure. Everyone assumes he’s mad.
Edmond is just thrilled to have someone to talk to. They bond as only two prisoners with only each other can bond.
And Faria disseminates everything he knows to Edmond: several languages, incredibly nuanced political and financial minutiae, and the location of the treasure.
This continues for eight more years - and they’re digging their tunnel trying to escape.
So yeah: this isn’t the kind of revenge story where they lose a couple years and try to get it all back. Edmond loses his youth.
But what we feel is Edmond being formed into a blade for what is to come. The development of a storm to be unleashed on those that wronged him. L from Death Note (… yes manga, shut up) could only wish he had the aura of Edmond Dantès.
At the end of fourteen years, there’s a twist that lets Edmond finally get out - brilliant in its tragedy.
I won’t spoil it further.
But yes: we essentially had a whole novel’s worth of page count to get through the initiating incident.
After that, The Count of Monte Cristo does start to have some problems.
It doesn’t fall off. It just goes from being a 10⁄10 to like a 9 to 8 consistently (I wanted to fit in a 67 joke but I couldn’t drop it that far like it’s still an amazing read this whole way through).
Crucial framing: Alexandre Dumas was paid by the word. So yes - later sections have tons of subplots and overly flowery writing. Yet I think it still pulls it off.
I actually enjoy seeing a master clearly of their craft working with this incentive for “more” and still executing something coherent. Subplots on subplots, yet it still feels like part of a great machine moving to execute Edmond’s revenge story. I’ve seen people recommend abridged versions more for this book than any other I’ve read. If that’s your thing — sure. But as someone who likes big chunky books (and I’m sure many of you shares this), I didn’t mind. It wasn’t hard to track as long as you keep reading and don’t take big breaks.
*did I spell that right?.. This is kind of a proto soap opera and a political thriller and satire.
And satire does not equal comedy.
Through Edmond, Dumas is making fun of the bourgeoisie. He’s tearing apart a newly found society birthed post-revolution: the wealthy manipulating the financial world, the idea of titles like “Count” still existing after royalty was overthrown, the whole concept of ordained rule… page after page.
Looking beyond the surface level: Dumas is brutalizing his peers, and for damn good reason.
Edmond reinvents himself as the Count and spiders through Parisian systems to take fabulous revenge: financially, socially, emotionally - importantly never physically.
Because, as Edmond basically puts it: killing someone is simple. Breaking their heart… after fourteen years cooking up revenge, he doesn’t want it to be easy.
He basically got a PhD in revenge.
How does he go from prison to being the Count?
The treasure.
Not meant to be a surprise - it’s overt in the text. It’s the only way he can do what he does.
And despite it not being some big suspense reveal, it might be my favorite treasure journey in fiction.
Because where Edmond is emotionally when he reaches that island makes what it means hit hard.
He earns a tool: power in its purest form. Wealth without the strings so often tied to his peers.
But it also awakens a weakness: Edmond develops a bit of a god complex. Starts believing the revenge journey is ordained.
And it’s not usually a good sign when a protagonist starts thinking God is telling them to do what they’re doing.
Trouble’s afoot.
This isn’t “Can Edmond get revenge?” or even simply “Should he?”
It’s about the journey of revenge, under a morally gray lens that doesn’t always make what he’s doing feel 100% right or wrong in the moment.
But it definitely isn’t saying he should have never walked the path. Just that there are lines—and perhaps some were crossed.
Perfect theme for this backdrop, in the book and outside it.
Because outside the story: after everything Thomas Dumas did, he was denied his pension, reducing their family to poverty. They asked again. Napoleon ignored them. Thomas died young of stomach cancer.
And Alexandre publishes this during the July Monarchy, which basically benefited the already wealthy.
The anger is palpable — but quiet. Long-lasting. That’s why Edmond’s entry into Paris society is so delicious:
He’s a new Gatsby-esque figure. Unlimited money. Throwing parties. Upper-class people flock to him like goats on his island — dumb animals basically coming to feed while he plans.
And then there’s the gut-punch detail: Edmond’s father dies of starvation from grief after his son disappears into prison.
“You killed my father.”
Edmond’s disguises — and his ability to pass for multiple nationalities — are crucial to the revenge plot and to the concept of freedom.
Being “of no country,” “asking protection of no government,” “acknowledging no man is my brother” - that opening monologue is the Count’s ideology.
And if you read this in the context of Dumas’s identity and his father being seen through race first in society?
It hits hard.
Yet the story also insists Edmond’s two greatest virtues aren’t wealth or knowledge.
They’re explicitly: the ability to wait and hope.
After fourteen years in jail, he is patient. We see him use it magnificently.
But hope is held higher.
Because while he ruins bastards, he also helps those who deserve it: financially, emotionally, spiritually. He roots out truth. He tries to cultivate good in people who maybe just weren’t enough.
He’s not cruel to everyone. He’s human.
And that humanity shows in moments of joy - like pacing around the island after finding the treasure - this perfectly human “Oh my god, what?” reaction that makes you fall in love with a man on a brutal journey.
As kids say: Dantès has aura.
But it isn’t one-note badass indulgence. His joy is infectious. There’s a moment where the original Edmond breaks through the disguises for a second and it nearly brought tears to my eyes. (I’m a softie, so what? You’re not better than me!)
The ending message, also amazing…
Dumas doesn’t say revenge is net good or bad by default. There’s a humanist understanding, asking you to consider consequences.
Dozens of lives altered, if not hundreds.
Edmond has to choose whether to finish the totality of his plan, and the reason is more complicated than “I regret it” or “he deserves it.”
It comes down to what Edmond’s psyche can take, and the long-term consequences of what he’s been doing.
It makes you wonder if, in some ways, he’s still in that prison - trapped by the need for revenge.
And the thing that scares him most at the end is someone else spiraling outside his control. Blood on his hands - maybe not intended - but he knew he was playing dangerous games with dangerous people.
We want yes/no answers. We want simple solutions.
But I’m satisfied with the ending because it feels earned: not a fade into silence of the symphony, but the snapping of a string overstretched.
So who does Edmond become?
Is he truly the Count when there’s none of that young optimistic man left?
No.
The ending is about how the core of this human wasn’t breakable - even by what happened to him. Something severe did happen enough to shake him out of the god complex and make him realize: maybe this isn’t ordained. Maybe I’m just rich and powerful and abusing my power.
The post-revenge period is hard. He falls into depression. He has to find purpose again.
And… yes… the book does something that makes me uncomfortable.
There’s a reason I said greatest, not favorite.
It goes without saying: it’s a product of its time.
It’s remarkably sexist at times. But if I squint, I can almost see why - and why it’s not as bad as a surface-level read might suggest.
Women were oppressed as hell, denied education, denied opportunity. I feel like Dumas realizes that, satirizes it, and still gives us agency-filled female characters with personality and desires beyond men.
Yet he certainly presents it as a virtue for women to be entirely devoted to one guy and his wishes.
Mercédès (without spoiling) might be the least satisfying conclusion. She’s built up as intelligent and curious… and then just not, in a way that feels like relinquished agency.
Haidée is more complicated. Edmond buys her (like as a slave… for… gross). He does treat her well though for what it’s worth (still gross though), and she’s presented as rebirth/new life/purpose.
But the ending has a… how should I say… Woody-Allen-esque taste to it. Grooming is a thing. You can’t deny it.
On an objective critical level: it’s coherent for its era. On a personal modern standards level: gross.
Also: there’s a mercy-killing treated like heroism (like Jesus Christ, dude. What are you doing?)…
I find it absolutely hilarious that apparently Dumas sincerely hates Italian food.
Throwaway insults at Italian food pop up like:
“And he was forced to eat Italian food,” as if that is objectively a bad thing.
That’s one of the funniest author quirks I’ve ever seen in my life.
I haven’t seen the movies.
I don’t really want to.
Because The Count of Monte Cristo is an exquisite example of a story in its perfect medium: Dumas’s luscious writing, indulgent storytelling, not caring about page count or scene length - that’s what readers who love reading crave.
I don’t think you can translate the heart of this story into visual media, even with a TV show, because so much is playful and internal and narrator-driven, acknowledging you, the reader.
You could do a thousand-percent faithful adaptation and I’d still prefer the book.
And I’ve heard one adaptation adds swordplay. Like why? The whole point was that he does not exact physical or violent revenge. It’s like one of the core principles of his character. Can’t just go adding shit for the sake of it.
I did research into the best English translation and nearly universally saw people say the newer Penguin Random House translation is the best.
So I bought that version, and that’s what I recommend.
If I haven’t pitched you enough yet:
It’s a story of seeing an underdog take down fragile powerful people.
And I cannot think of, in the time and place we’re all in right now, a more cathartic thing to read.
Edmond walks through a society filled with bullies who think they have true power because they’re rich and have meaningless titles.
But they don’t even dress and shave themselves half the time. There’s a character who, before confronting his wife about potential deaths, has his servant prepare him. How pathetic.
So for me: The Count of Monte Cristo gets a 10 out of 10.
I’m so happy I read this. I consider it debatably the greatest book I have ever read - not only for how much it drags you into the perspective and understanding of the time, but also the quality of the story being told.
It is simply magnificent.
“Struggle of a hero beset by perils, riding to magnificent victory and ultimate triumph.”
OOOF, long post! Have a good one, y’all.
Now I must go back to planning my grand epic revenge. I don’t even know on who yet. I just want to find someone to revengeify.