Notre-Dame de Paris (Oxford World's Classics) by Victor Hugo
By Victor Hugo
On the middle of Hugo's vintage novel are 3 awesome characters stuck in an online of deadly obsession. The ugly hunchback Quasimodo, bell-ringer of Notre-Dame, owes his existence to the austere archdeacon, Claude Frollo, who in flip is sure by way of a hopeless ardour to the gypsy dancer Esmeralda. She, in the meantime, is bewitched by means of a good-looking, empty-headed officer, yet by way of an unthinking act of kindness wins Quasimodo's selfless devotion. at the back of the important figures strikes a competition of picturesque characters, together with the underworld of beggars and petty criminals whose attack at the cathedral is likely one of the such a lot remarkable set-pieces of Romantic literature.
Alban Krailsheimer's new translation bargains a clean method of this enormous paintings via France's such a lot celebrated Romantic authors.
About the sequence: For over a hundred years Oxford World's Classics has made to be had the broadest spectrum of literature from around the world. every one reasonable quantity displays Oxford's dedication to scholarship, offering the main exact textual content plus a wealth of alternative invaluable good points, together with specialist introductions via best experts, voluminous notes to elucidate the textual content, updated bibliographies for additional learn, and lots more and plenty extra.
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I am the most slavish of students, with here a dictionary, there a note-book in which I enter curious uses of the past participle. But one cannot go on for ever cutting these ancient inscriptions clearer with a knife. Shall I always draw the red-serge curtain close and see my book, laid like a block of marble, pale under the lamp? That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.
Then I shall drop you. ‘I am one person – myself. I do not impersonate Catullus, whom I adore. I am the most slavish of students, with here a dictionary, there a note-book in which I enter curious uses of the past participle. But one cannot go on for ever cutting these ancient inscriptions clearer with a knife. Shall I always draw the red-serge curtain close and see my book, laid like a block of marble, pale under the lamp? That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.
But now we have regained our territory after that brief brush with the bicycles and the lime scent and the vanishing figures in the distracted street. Here we are masters of tranquillity and order; inheritors of proud tradition. The lights are beginning to make yellow slits across the square. Mists from the river are filling these ancient spaces. They cling, gently, to the hoary stone. The leaves now are thick in country lanes, sheep cough in the damp fields; but here in your room we are dry. We talk privately.