I’ll admit it, this summer I was real sad. My life just hadn’t taken the course I’d wished to steer it in. Trouble with relationships, my health and various addictions were plenty enough to bring me down. Now, I’m a typical Finnish male; I don’t deal with emotions very well, nor do I enjoy talking about them. Furthermore, I spent my entire summer working minimum-wage morning shifts. No fancy trips, mini-vacations at summer cottages, or general revelry with the gang for me. Instead I spent my days lying in bed face down after work, listening to Moonlight Sonata on repeat. Every day felt the same, so I guess I could say that I wasn’t exactly expecting for it to get any better. However, I found comfort in – somewhat unexpectedly – a novel. That novel was The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, or more precisely, an English translation by Robert Buss. It is not my intention to spoil Monte Cristo’s plot in this article, but I feel like I should say something about it for the sake of clarity. The story follows the life of young Edmond Dantès, who is wrongfully imprisoned, who escapes the prison, and who later moulds himself into the eponymous gentleman, vowing to take revenge on his enemies. The story is long and intricate – and sad. It was just so sad that before I could note it, I was completely engrossed by it. Seldom before had I connected with a novel’s characters so strongly; not just the Count, but all of them. The good Abbé Faria, Maximilian, Mercédès, Albert, even Villefort. I felt their pain, and it felt good.
This summer was long, I think. My collection of empty Jägermeister bottles grew by quite a bit (I’ve, at the time of writing, fashioned a chandelier out of them. It looks quite nice. Ask me for instructions.), as I grew scared. I was scared of finishing Monte Cristo, because I had found such solace in reading it. By clinging to it, I was able to cast aside my own worries. I’m sure most of you have experienced what I am describing here, a sense of escapism. As the summer progressed, so did my reading. I have always enjoyed reading. I read, I feel, more than most others. Not necessarily to learn, but simply out of habit. Others might play video games, watch films, or listen to music. For leisure, I read. But Monte Cristo was something special, something truly profound. And I think that this was due to my emotional state matching the novel’s events so well.
Eventually, I finished the book. I finished The Count of Monte Cristo. And I was blown away by it. It didn’t fix my life but I became noticeably less sad, I thought. And so did others, I later heard. Maybe it was the novel, or rather the strong moral message Dumas wishes to convey that made me forget some of my sadness. Perhaps it was just the fact that I did something in the first place. Lying around and doing nothing isn’t exactly the best cure for any condition. Well, I’m no psychologist: this article isn’t meant to make you sad folks out there any less sad, because I have no such power. Corny as it may sound, only you have that power.
Some folks, educated folks even, might say that understanding and processing emotions and feelings in an analytical manner is the best way to control yourself and lead a stable life. To understand that everyone has their ups and downs, and that such swings are natural. It’s not that I disagree, but what I found more important is that even if you are sad or otherwise emotional – embrace it. At the risk of sounding like Emperor Palpatine, embrace your feelings, reader. There is a mystical quality about emotions that no man can fully explain. Yet, I feel like reading Monte Cristo taught me something very important: by embracing our emotions and storing a memory of them, they can supply us with strength during the future hardships we inevitably face in life.
I’m still not happy. However, I was able to feel something intense and I am grateful for that, even if it was painful at first. Soon after finishing Monte Cristo, I picked up Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, or Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. Yes, I continued reading about other peoples’ lives even though I was unable to completely understand my own. But it did help, somehow. Through reading about others, I understood also more about myself, I think. I was able to feel the pain of Mark Antony, whose heart betrayed his mind. The endless sorrow of Gaius Gracchus, whose good-willed brother was murdered by the avaricious members of the Senate. The disbelief of Caesar, when he saw Brutus amongst the conspirators. And I felt better.
Maybe I was able to resonate with books because they’re easier than people. They don’t judge, they don’t make demands, and more often than not a good book has a meaningful message – just like a conversation might. This, I think, is what separates literature from other mediums of escapism. Books are so very personal; written by one to be read by another. I sincerely hope that one day I’ll be able to progress from opening myself to books to revealing my inner self to other people. Still, until that day comes, books will have to do.
Reader, if you haven’t already, crack one open. You’ll be surprised at what you can learn not only about the world, but also about yourself. Lastly, for those of you who are indeed feeling sad, I have but these words: ‘Wait and Hope’.