Victor Hugo and his words reigned the whole 19th century. From 1802 to 1885 the world could read the awesome works of this awesome novelist, poet, essayist… writer after all.
Tell me the story of a man whom every sea acclaimed, tell me the story of a French prodigious who became major of the city of lights, this city that felt defeated talents and whispers beyond the flag of that revolution that you, as one of its fathers, couldn’t ever feel. Did you feel the end of time when you wrote Les Miserables? It’s 1789 and it’s time for this Revolution, but now it’s time to feel love next to Quasimodo and listen to the bells ringing again. What’s the time? It’s time now for a man who is looking for a past in the future, it’s time to believe in dreams and it’s time to dream with Victor Hugo. He is just a teenager but he is one of the most famous writers in Paris… and then it meant to be one of the most famous writers in the world. The drawings you did since you were just a child, the drawings you translated into words and the words translated into feelings and the love that becomes hate and the hate that, at least for one moment, became love… true love forever.
There are sins you can never forget and there are sins you want to forget. No more regrets for a man whom every rock of Notre Dame owed its cruel life. No regrets for Victor Hugo, symbol of the join of past and future and true reporter of a life plenty of colors, remains, truths, lies, shames, desires, deaths… isn’t life in the end? The end that is always starting again and again, the end that begins with the birth of an idea, cruel, smooth or vengeful… the idea of a gypsy woman in the Feast of Fools. Are you there, Jean Valjean? Of course he is, of course he is not. The dark night is over all, and everywhere you can feel the shadow of his true fake words of the man who painted Paris, the man who colored the world with the skin of a plenty time of cruel heroes and honest villains. Is not the paradox the best place to find the truth? Is not the lie the best way to know the truth? Is not the war the place where we try to find heroes? Is not in the peacetime when we find the real liars?
Try to save me, Mr. Hugo, try to save me again of this fake life. Try to save me of this lie we call life, save me now from the fake of the sky, save me know for the dream that become truth. I wish to be there, in the world you painted with the master pencil of the man who everything ignores, with the master pencil of the wiser, with the master quill of a prodigious child who produced prodigious books in a prodigious city. Paris buried him in 1885.
I’m now in front of Notre Dame. I’m in front of a Victor Hugo book. The dream is going to begin.