The "Alien Invasion" of 1938

"They're bombing New Jersey!" declared a frightened Bronx citizen to a passing Patrolman.
"How do you know?"  Was the incredulous response.
"I heard it on the radio!" 

This is the true story of how an American radio drama ignited doomful terror of an alien invasion in the hearts of thousands of listeners.
Its been dubbed the "Panic Broadcast" - "the greatest invasion that never happened."

~*~

1938 was a year of tension and tribulation.
The Great Depression persisted to hold America in its iron grip, and Nazis Germany had "annexed" Austria, continuing to grow in power and hostility. Hitler's obdurate speeches, given in a state of fanaticism, and the realities of the economy were heard not just as distant threats in the papers, but as undeniable events welcomed over the airwaves by American (and Canadian) citizens into the intimacy of their family circles and homes. News bulletins were daily increasing, interrupting the soothing rhythm of the radio programs. 
Radios were a sensational pieces of entertainment and information. Despite the United State's economic low, its been calculated that 80% of American's owned a radio! People were finding it extremely difficult to buy the necessities of life. They were searching for work and pawning off valuables, and yet they zealously treasured their radios.

In Germany, Hitler had recognized the potential - the controlling power - that this machine could have over his people, and was manipulating it for his propaganda purposes.

 

In New York, The Mercury Theatre on the Air was preparing something special for their eager listeners under the astute direction of one of its founders, Orson Welles, the twenty-three year old "Broadway theatrical prodigy."

The Theatre's radio productions had thus far been one hour shows based on popular literature, including Treasure Island, A Tale of Two Cities, and Around the World in Eighty Days. This latest one - to be aired October 30, the eve of Halloween - was to be no different. But as the writers and directors prepared the script, some argued that it would fail to capture the audience's attention. That it was boring.
So they brainstormed some more, and it was in the frantic last few days before the deadline, that Welles suggested that it be performed as a series of news bulletins, recounted seemingly from the eyewitness accounts of journalists and reporters.

The story was based off of H. G. Wells' 1897 novel, The World of the Worlds, about a Martian invasion of England. 
They had Americanized the setting and liberally altered the characters and conversations, but the pith of the story was left untouched.
As the theatre group went live on air, the announcer introduced the story, obviously stating that the show was a drama, and then Welles himself commenced the story with a narration. Then...

"Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt our program of dance music to bring you a special bulletin from the Intercontinental Radio News... Professor Farrell of the Mount Jennings Observatory, Chicago, Illinois, reports observing several explosions of incandescent gas, occurring at regular intervals on the planet Mars."

An interview with another Professor about these abnormal occurrences further interrupts the music, and a news bulletin takes the listeners to the scene of a strange landing. A place which the script writers chose at random on a map of the U.S.

"We are bringing you an eyewitness account of what's happening on the Wilmuth farm, Grovers Mill, New Jersey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed! Something wriggling out of the shadow like a gray snake. Now it's another one, and another. They look like tentacles to me."

To put it simply, the War of the World's was a genius radio production with exceptional acting and directing.
The aliens begin their attack...

"Now the whole fields on fire - the woods, the barns, the - the gas tanks of the automobiles. It's spreading everywhere. Its coming this way now, about twenty yards to my right - " 

And just like that, the mic went dead. All you could hear was static.This was a brilliantly improvised moment! Welles shot his hands up in the air like a conductor, and the actors and orchestra went silent.

No one in the recording studio knew the affect they were having on their fellow countrymen.
Its interesting how the human mind works. People heard that aliens were attacking with poison gas, so they saw and smelt gas. The aliens were beginning to bomb the area surrounding Grover's Mill, so they heard and saw bombings, no matter how far away they lived from the supposed catastrophe. 
Fear is an irrational thing - but it also reveals truth about the times, and the hearts of individuals. Roosevelt understood this when he spoke his famous words in his inaugural address in 1933 - the very doldrums of the Depressions.

"Let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself... nameless, unreasoning, unjustifiable terror which paralyzes needed effort to convert retreat into advance."

Many people hadn't heard the drama's announcer introduce the theatrical nature of the story, the majority has been listening to another station featuring a ventriloquist and his puppet Charlie McCarthy, and after some dial twisting during a musical interlude (much like channel surfing during advertisements), had stumbled upon a "news flash" informing them - it seemed in all sincerity - of a martian landing and attack. They missed the introduction, or they dismissed the important opening words in light of the realistic quality of the play, and by the time Welles paused for the interlude and reintroduction of the performance, people were fleeing for their lives!

Between 8:30 and 10:00 pm on the night of the broadcast, a Jersey Police log recorded "at least 50 calls...persons inquiring as to meteors, number of person's dead, gas attacks, militia being called..."
On the morning following the broadcast, the Trenton Times were overflowing with accounts of hysteria. There were (tragically) reports of suicide, nurses were seen praying in the streets, "one Hamilton Township woman vowed she had stuffed all the doors and windows with paper and wet rags but that the fumes were already seeping into her living room," whole families packed up their precious belongings and drove into the countryside or hid in their cellars, and ironically, a town in Washington State suffered from a power outage on the same night, causing everyone to believe it was a result of the alien's assault.

"The panic reached its peak in the metropolitan New York section. Unaware of the fiction of what they had heard, thousands rushed into the streets and parks, spreading their infectious alarm as they milled around, waiting for destruction to overtake them."

We learn about these seemingly idiotic responses and laugh at the people's naivety, but I doubt whether we would have been laughing in 1938.
The broadcast demonstrated the power of radio and propaganda. Journalist Dorothy Thompson states it well:

"Hitler managed to scare all Europe to its knees a month ago, but at least he had an army and an air force to back up his shrieking words... Mr. Welles scared thousands into demoralization with nothing at all..." 

The following cartoon sums it up perfectly! 

With the conclusion of their live production, Houseman, one of the theatre's founding members says, "the following hours were a nightmare." Swarmed by police and the press, an investigation was put in place. Though Welles was sorry for the damage to the morale and livelihood of his fellow Americans he couldn't help but be pleased with his success. His radio show had made front page news all over the country (and beyond)!

The War of the World's broadcast aired over seventy years ago to listeners of a very different generation, but it's intriguing historical events like this one that remind me of our common humanity, and, unfortunately, our tendency to fear first and think after. We still listen and watch world events with trepidation, and wonder diffidently what the future may hold. But we don't have to live in fear, for we are not alone; we have a conqueror in Christ! "In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world" (John 16:33).

I highly suggest listening to the original broadcast! I've included a link to it here!

Resources:

American Experience - War of the World's: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/films/worlds/player/

The War of the World's script: http://www.sacred-texts.com/ufo/mars/wow.htm

Trenton Times newspaper articles: http://www.war-ofthe-worlds.co.uk/documents.htm#orson

Franklin Roosevelt's speech: http://historymatters.gmu.edu/d/5057/

My Thoughts on THE BOOK THIEF

I don't often write reviews about the books I read because my "writing time" is filled with blogging, poetry, or short story writing, and I prefer to share my thoughts in person (my family can attest to that!). But there was something about this book that gave my hand that irresistible "itch" to write. 
So I did.

This is a beautiful book...
Not only do the characters and setting exude a "realness," but the sentences and words themselves breath with life.

"She ran the back of her hand along the first shelf, listening to the shuffle of her fingernails gliding across the spinal cord of each book. It sounded like an instrument, or the notes of running feet. She used both hands. She raced them. One shelf against the other. And she laughed. Her voice sprawled out, high in her throat, and when she eventually stopped and stood in the middle of the room, she spent many minutes looking from the shelves to her finger and back again.
How many books had she touched?
How many had she felt?" (pg 135)

Its rather paradoxical then, that such beauty and depth can also be home to such foulness.
Swear words.
There were dozens of them - thus only the four stars.
But isn't that one of the themes this book reveals concerning humanity? The question: how can the same thing be "so ugly and so glorious?" (pg 150)

I have read many books dealing with these devastating times, but none have moved me, or narrowed the gap between history and reality for me, like this one. I was overcome with sorrow for the Liesel's, Max's, Han's, and Rudy's of the Second World War, and will not deny that I shed a few tears after the story was concluded and I had time to sift through my swirling thoughts and impressions. And yet, I've received much hope from this fictional account of suffering and death. For buried within the dark, lonely basements, boxing matches with the Fuehrer, bombings, and book burnings, are the accordionist's with gentle, silver eyes, "bread givers," thirteen presents for a dying friend, library havens, and snowmen -

"CHRISTMAS GREETINGS FROM MAX VANDENBURG: Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands." (pg 313)

The Book Thief has left me with a lot to ponder and discuss (it is hard to put my thoughts into words), but there is one sentiment that rises again and again in my reflections: radiant hope and beauty come from ashes, and not simply because of the endurance of the human spirit, but because of the God who created that spirit, and gives purpose to life.

Have you read The Book Thief (or even just watched the movie)? What are your thoughts and impressions? Please share below!

Poesy Part III: Songs of a Shepherd and Sir Sydney

In my last two blog posts I've explored how poetry can give voice to unbearable suffering, and inexpressible beauty, as well as creatively record archaic legends and acts of history for posterity.

Now in this installment, I would like to explore what a young shepherd discovered in the wilderness of ancient Israel and later used in the courts of King Saul, as well as in hiding, fearing for his life, and eventually as the King himself.

Poetry is a gift from God and is a beautiful expression of worship.

Consider David's timeless verses which both glorify the Lord's magnificence, using poesy's greatest literary devices, and serve as an epitome for the deepest cries of the human soul, redeemed by God and striving along the journey of life.

"Deep calls to deep
at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
have gone over me.
By day the Lord commands his steadfast
love,
and at night his song is with me,
a prayer to the God of my life" (Psalm 42:7-8).

"You have kept count of my tossings;
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your book?" (Psalm 56:8).

"And I say, 'Oh, that I had wings like a dove! 

I would fly away and be at rest..." (Psalm 55:6). 

"And they say, 'The Lord does not see;
the God of Jacob does not perceive'...
He who planted the ear, does he not hear?
He who formed the eye, does he not see?
He who disciplines the nations, does he not
rebuke?
He who teaches man knowledge
- the Lord - knows the thoughts of
man,
that they are but a breadth" (Psalm 94:7, 9-11)

"Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy
blot out my transgressions" (Psalm 51:1)"

"Bless the Lord, O my soul!
O Lord my God, you are very
great!
You are clothed with splendour and majesty,
covering yourself with light as with a
garment,
stretching out the heavens like a tent.
He lays the beams of his chambers on the
waters;
he makes the clouds his chariots;
he rides on the wings of the wind" (Psalm 104:1-3).


Arguably one of David's most famous songs, The Lord is My Shepherd (Psalm 23) is included in an anthology of English poetry that I found in a secondhand bookstore. My goal was to read one poem from the collection every day... I have definitely not succeeded in that, but the poems I have read are treasures, particularly a poem by Sir Philip Sydney (1554-1586) that I thought would be fitting to share with you, dear readers.
I will let it speak for itself, only highlighting a few of the many instances where the poet makes reference to Scripture. 

Note  

When I read poetry I often follow these steps (feel free to change and improve this method to make it work for you):

1. Read
2. Read aloud to get a sense of the rhythm and rhyme.
3. Read again, slowly, to ponder the devices, theme and 'voice' of the poem.
4. Read once more as "quickly" as the first time (You'll be surprised how much better you understand and appreciate the words!).

Leave Me, O Love, Which Reachest but to Dust
By Sir Philip Sydney

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;1
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;2

Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;3
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,
That both doth shine and give us sight to see.4
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.5

1. 2 Corinthians 4:18

2. Matthew 6:19-21

3. Matthew 11:28-30
4. Psalm 119:105
5. John 3:16

Poesy Part II: Camelot and Quotes from Anne

"Look do you see that poem?" she said suddenly, pointing.  

"Where?" Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes on the birch trees. 

"There. . .down in the brook. . .that old green, mossy log with the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they'd been combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it's the most beautiful poem I ever saw." 

"I should rather call it a picture," said Jane. "A poem is lines and verses." 

"Oh dear me, no." Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry coronal positively. "The lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are you, Jane. The real poem is the soul within them . . .and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one sees a soul. . .even of a poem." (Anne of Avonlea)

I find myself quoting and thinking continually about L. M. Montgomery's character, "Anne Shirley. Anne with an 'e,'" as I prepare this series, which not only reveals the tremendous influence the vivacious young heroine with her love of big words and her romantic flair has played in cultivating within me an appreciation and reveling for poetry, but how Montgomery weaves poetic thought, movement, and imagery into the very prose of her stories...

"It was November - the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let the great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul." (Anne of Green Gables)

Those who have watched the beloved movie adaption of the first book (Anne of Green Gables) will recall that it begins with a young, rag-clad Anne walking dreamily through a forest, a basket on her hip, an open book in her hand, reading aloud a poem from its pages...  "...she has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay..."
Then, how several years later, now living at Green Gables, Anne and her friends reenact a scene from a poem they've studied in school, which ends calamitously with the sinking of the boat and Anne's near drowning, who is only saved from her precarious position and her "watery grave"  by Gilbert Blythe's timely rescue (to her utter dismay and disdain). Ironically, Gilbert succeeds in what Sir Lancelot could not - rescuing the "Lady of Shalott," the lovely lily maid! 

 "'Of course you must be Elaine, Anne.' said Diana. 'I could never have the courage to float down there.'...It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter... They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. (Anne of Green Gables)"

 Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote, in his timeless lyrical style, a number of versions of this tragic tale, breathing life into almost forgotten, archaic legends. The one I've decided to share with you is the version Anne Shirley reads at the beginning of the movie. Tennyson revised his earlier poem and published it in this form in 1842.
When I first watched the video below I was transported to that romantic, medieval - though far from realistic - world! The narrative, pictures, and music capture the true essence of the poem. So if you can take the time to listen to it, I hope you too will be transported away to this land of lyrical beauty. 

Part I.

On either side the river lie 

Long fields of barley and of rye, 

That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 

And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot; 

And up and down the people go, 

Gazing where the lilies blow 

Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 

Thro' the wave that runs for ever 

By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 

Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 

Overlook a space of flowers, 

And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd 

Slide the heavy barges trail'd 

By slow horses; and unhail'd 

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 

But who hath seen her wave her hand? 

Or at the casement seen her stand? 

Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 

In among the bearded barley, 

Hear a song that echoes cheerly 

From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot: 

And by the moon the reaper weary, 

Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 

Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

Part II. 

There she weaves by night and day 

A magic web with colours gay. 

She has heard a whisper say, 

A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 

She knows not what the curse may be, 

And so she weaveth steadily, 

And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 

That hangs before her all the year, 

Shadows of the world appear. 

There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot: 

There the river eddy whirls, 

And there the surly village-churls, 

And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 

An abbot on an ambling pad, 

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 

The knights come riding two and two: 

She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 

To weave the mirror's magic sights, 

For often thro' the silent nights 

A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot: 

Or when the moon was overhead, 

Came two young lovers lately wed; 

"I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Part III. 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 

He rode between the barley-sheaves, 

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 

And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 

A redcross knight for ever kneel'd 

To a lady in his shield, 

That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 

Like to some branch of stars we see 

Hung in the golden Galaxy. 

The bridle-bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot: 

And from his blazon'd baldric slung 

A mighty silver bugle hung, 

And as he rode his armour rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 

The helmet and the helmet-feather 

Burn'd like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 

As often thro' the purple night, 

Below the starry clusters bright, 

Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 

From underneath his helmet flow'd 

His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 

From the bank and from the river 

He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 

"Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 

She made three paces thro' the room, 

She saw the water-lily bloom, 

She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 

Out flew the web and floated wide; 

The mirror crack'd from side to side; 

"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Part IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 

The pale-yellow woods were waning, 

The broad stream in his banks complaining, 

Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot; 

Down she came and found a boat 

Beneath a willow left afloat, 

And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse – 

Like some bold seër in a trance, 

Seeing all his own mischance – 

With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 

And at the closing of the day 

She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 

The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 

That loosely flew to left and right – 

The leaves upon her falling light – 

Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot: 

And as the boat-head wound along 

The willowy hills and fields among, 

They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 

Till her blood was frozen slowly, 

And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; 

For ere she reach'd upon the tide 

The first house by the water-side, 

Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

A corse between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 

Out upon the wharfs they came, 

Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 

And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 

And in the lighted palace near 

Died the sound of royal cheer; 

And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot: 

But Lancelot mused a little space; 

He said, "She has a lovely face; 

God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott."

Poesy Part I: Crinkly Feelings, Latin Phrases, and Mustard Gas

Dear readers,
"Don't you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back?"
Yes! Do you!? 
The character, Anne Shirley's, inspirited musing gives voice to my own - though minimal - experience with poetry. 
With that said, it is with great felicity and flourish that I present to you a series of posts that will forthwith feature some of my favourite poems (I'm on an alliteration role!)! 
They are just a smattering of verses; poems that I can read time and again without becoming immune to their profundity and the captivating beauty of their words - the way they dance on the end of my tongue, and create a mosaic of colour and emotion in my mind's eye.


The first poem I shall share with you deals with the agonies and horrors of the First World War, and is written by leading British war poet, Wilfred Owen, who was killed at the age of twenty-five on the Front, only a week before the Armistice. The majority of his work was published posthumously.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 

And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. 

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling, 

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling 

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime... 

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

Close up of a gas victim in a painting
I saw at the Canadian War Museum (2013).

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 

Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; 

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— 

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 

To children ardent for some desperate glory, 

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est 

Pro patria mori.*

* "It is sweet and right to die for your country." A Latin phrase from an Ode by Horace, often quoted during the War.

If you're interested in delving deeper into this gripping and haunting poem, feel free to peruse some of the sites I've included here below...

• http://www.enotes.com/topics/dulce-et-decorum-est/in-depth
• http://www.shmoop.com/dulce-et-decorum-est/
• http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

Introduction to an Epic

"There is a prospect greater than the sea, and it is the sky; there is a prospect greater than the sky, and it is the human soul. To make a poem of the human conscience, even in terms of a single man and the least of men, would be to merge all epics in a single epic transcending all."

Victor Hugo's (1802-1885) passionate and thought-provoking words are worth relishing and reflecting upon... Just consider, dear reader...  If it is impossible to understand the human soul, how much more difficult is it to comprehend the vastness and magnificence of the Creator of the soul?! 
Hugo endeavored to portray the reality of his own musings by writing a book about the "human conscience" and a "single man's" life. It is an introspective journey of pain, darkness, redemption, sorrow, and light. 
Since my first introduction to this daunting tome a few years ago, it has remained one of my favourite classics. Can you guess what it is? Les Misérables - a rather difficult title to pronounce - which can be translated as The Miserable Ones, The Wretched, or The Underdogs.

Hugo's insight and ability to put many aspects of the human condition into words is remarkable. Norman Denny, a translator of Hugo's work writes, 

"Les Misérables with its depth of vision and underlying truth, its moments of lyrical quality and of moving compassion, is a novel of towering stature, one of the great works of western literature, a melodrama that is also a morality and a social document embracing a wider field than any other novel of its time." 

Cosette

Set against the backdrop of 19th Century France, Les Misérables tells the tale of Jean Valjean, a man cast from society, sentenced to nineteen years of hard labour after stealing a loaf of bread and sequential attempts to escape. He is released a calloused man - free from the chain and the lash, but not from the law or the hatred and darkness that grips his soul.
After a pivotal encounter with a bishop, Valjean "looks at the picture of his life...and of his own soul, hideous in its ugliness," and weeps (I imagine much as Peter wept after he had denounced Jesus three times). The ex-convict's tears turn to those of a freed man as the burden of his sin is lifted and he receives God's grace. Taking on a new identity, he becomes a successful and benevolent mayor. But then his past rears its ugly head and he must wrestle within the depths of his heart and conscience to decide how he will respond. The dilemma will have unprecedented affects on himself and a multitude of others.
Les Mis is not only concerned with the internal struggle (man against God, and man against himself) but also the social one (man against man). France is restless, the poor are voiceless, and the idealism's of the Revolution are ripe for revival. Valjean finds himself caught in the epicentre of the conflict. Now as the loving guardian of a beautiful young girl named Cosette - the "little lark" - he is consumed with his desire to care for her forever and protect her from his past, but blossoming love may serve to alter his newly found purpose. Not only do unsettling reappearances of the rogue Thenardier bring upheaval to Valjean's life, but he continues to be hunted by Javert, an Inspector of Police whose adherence to the law leaves no room for mercy to others - or himself. 
Though Valjean is the central figure of the novel, the characters surrounding him (some of which I've already mentioned) are equally profound and fascinating...
The beautiful and tragic Fantine who falls into degradation in order to keep her daughter alive...
Marius, a romantic, idealistic young man...
Enjolras, a principled, and daring Revolutionary, surrounded by young men whose desire for liberty and equality will send them to their early graves...
Eponine, a ragged girl whose unobserved, sacrificial love will save the lives of many...
Gavroche, a quick-witted, courageous young urchin who calls the streets of Paris his mother and fights alongside the Revolutionaries...

Statue of Gavroche and his two younger brothers. Valetta, Malta.

Despite the beauty and depth of Hugo's work, his writing style is far from perfect - Les Mis is accused by the same translator as being, "loaded down with digressions, interpolated discourses, passages of moralizing rhetoric" and many other "sins" of the novelist writer.
In fact, the first advice I received when beginning to read this book was to skip the first few chapters!
Hugo certainly "says everything, and more than everything." Not only do you get very detailed historical accounts - most notably, the Battle of Waterloo - but you tour the hidden world of a nunnery, climb into the cesspit of the Paris sewers, and hear many eloquent speeches on politics and the ideals prevalent of the time.
And yet, there is something beautiful and almost assuring about these wanderings that helped me surmount his rabbit-trails and kept me from skipping, despite the passages on politics and religion that I either disagreed with or found difficult to understand. They cement a vivid picture in the minds eye and contribute to the realism of the story. The apparent "coincidences" and incidences all connect and entwine, conferring one of the many themes evident throughout: There is something - Someone - at work in our lives, orchestrating both the grand historical events, and the seemingly insignificant meetings, happenings and decisions.

When Les Misérables was first published in 1862, it captured an enormous audience of diverse social backgrounds, particularly the poor. It acknowledged their plight in ways contrary to any other piece of literature. People were drawn to sympathize and relate with the characters. Fantine is an illustration of the suffering of women, as well as sacrifice made for one's child, Cosette and Gavroche are the faces of waifs and strays - innocence and lost innocence - Valjean not only exemplifies imprisoned, broken men, ostracized forever from society, but hope and redemption, and Marius stands as an illustration of a wandering soul. Hugo wished to impress the cry of the poor and homeless into people's hearts, so often lost in the clamour of life's events. In no way have these themes and characters lost their potency; they still impact an immense audience - maybe none more so than now.

Les Mis remains the longest running Broadway musical in history, and was recently made into an award winning movie in 2012. Though the musical is not wholly true to the novel, it is a masterpiece in its own way. Musical scores such as Bring Him Home, I Dreamed a Dream, Who Am I?, On My Own, Stars, and One Day More, capture and bring to light the overarching themes and sentiments of the story. I find it inspiriting and refreshing to consider that God could not be erased from such a world renowned drama. It would be a meaningless story without Him!

Within Les Misérables, Hugo gave a summary of his intentions and aspirations for his masterpiece...

"The book which the reader now holds in his hands, from one end to the other... treats the advance from evil to good, from injustice to justice, from falsity to truth, from darkness to daylight, from blind appetite to conscience, from bestiality to duty, from Hell to Heaven, from Limbo to God..."

There is so much more I could say, but I will leave it at that and allow you to discover it for yourself if you wish, and conclude with a trailer of the musical...