Killing characters: Why some horrible deaths are okay and some are not

I don’t know why you’d be reading this if you haven’t watched the last episode of Game of Thrones, but just in case you haven’t and don’t want to be spoiled, please, stop reading. Game of Thrones seems to be the only thing I want to talk about lately, so I might as well take advantage and write about it, hopefully get some interesting discussion on the subject.

A few weeks ago, I ranted at Shonda Rhimes because of McDreamy’s death (STILL NOT OVER THAT). If anything, last night’s Game of Thrones episode nine we all knew it was coming and yet we still hate it death was much more horrifying, not only in the execution, but also in regards to the storyline. A man dying while trying to help others is heroic, even if McDreamy’s death was stupid and unnecessary. A child being burned alive by her father because a priestess insists she needs royal blood to make sure they win the battle to come is just…stupid.

But it works.

It works, because, in this world that Game of Thrones has built for us, these things happen. No one is perfectly good or perfectly evil, and characters we respected, like Stannis, can do incomprehensible things. It works, in a way it didn’t in Grey’s Anatomy, because the Derek Shepherd that we knew and loved wouldn’t have gone back for his stupid cell-phone only to get run over in the middle of an otherwise deserted street.

The unthinkable sometimes make more sense than the seemingly ordinary. Especially when it’s well written.

Of course, there’s also the fact that I could see Shireen’s death coming a mile away. I tried to ignore my instincts, because some things are too horrible to consider, but the foreshadowing was there. In fact, the foreshadowing was so strong that, after the episode, I was left to think that, as angry as we all felt that she was dead, we would have felt cheated if she’d survived.

We don’t have to like all stories. We don’t have to agree with what the writers give us. But, if the writing is good, more often than not, we’ll at least have to bow our head and say: Fine, I can accept that. It makes sense.

That’s the difference between a horrible death and an awful one. The writers. Good writing can tell almost any story. You hear that, Shonda? Almost any story. 

Game of Thrones, Sansa Stark and the book vs TV show experience

I read all five books in the Song of Ice and Fire series, and yes, I am guilty of offering deals to the devil in exchange for Book 6. I am a fan. I haven’t been one for as long as other people, but I am a fan. A dedicated one. I’ve discussed theories much more complicated than R+L=J and have spent countless hours trying to figure out what the future holds for my favorite characters.

Surprisingly enough, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the TV show.

I say surprising, because if there is one thing I can admit about myself, it’s that I AM a snob. I have had a problem with almost every literary adaptation of a book I have loved, and the few exceptions to the rule (Lord of the Rings comes to mind) are usually reserved for the books I didn’t love so much. If I love the book, I must certainly won’t love the movie/show. Especially if they change things.

Enter Game of Thrones.

I’ve got no explanation for you. I really don’t. The TV show has done some things that have made me throw the appropriate book at the screen. (The Jamie/Cersei “rape” ….UGH), but, in general, they’ve done right by the characters I like, and have actually made me enjoy characters I despised or were bored by.

DANERYS, I’M LOOKING AT YOU.

That is, until the whole Sansa thing.

I couldn’t even watch. It wasn’t a shocking development. We all figured it was coming. But I swear, in a TV show where violence and nudity are a common thing, this time, I couldn’t even watch. I was horrified. Disgusted.

AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE SANSA.

Violence for the sake of violence is not my cup of tea. Violence against females for the sake of making them stronger is abhorrent.

And yet…I can’t stop watching. I won’t stop watching.

You have every right to do so, if you want. I won’t begrudge you your right. (I repeat, it WAS awful). But…as much as we may pretend to understand the reasons …we have only read the books. The TV show is clearly a different beast. And  no, they don’t always make the right choices. But, this is another one of my flaws, one I recognize, and have discussed a length.

I’m a writer, you see. I like to give other writers the benefit of the doubt. I like to think that there’s a reason for whatever is going on. I usually finish every book I read, even if I want to rip the pages out, because…well, because I never feel like I can properly criticize if I don’t have the full story.

So, yes, I will watch. Maybe they’ll convince me this wasn’t just raping a woman for the shock value. Maybe it wasn’t more violence in an already violent show just because violence sells. Maybe there’s a reason that serves the story.

I hope so. And it’s okay if you’re not a masochist as I am. What happened to Sansa wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t fun. IT WASN’T EVEN IN THE BOOK.

But, hey, it could still make for a damn good story. 

Grey’s Anatomy, TV shows and YES, sometimes the writers mess up

Full disclosure: I haven’t seen Grey’s Anatomy in over two years. When they announced Cristina was leaving, I jumped ship. I didn’t even watch her final season. The show without Cristina didn’t make much sense to me. And yet, I never badmouthed the show or the writers. I didn’t tell people to stop watching. I adjusted my expectations …this was not about Meredith and Cristina, after all. This was, and had always been, about Meredith and Derek. That’s the story they were telling. And I was okay with that (even if I wasn’t that interested).

And then yesterday happened.

I haven’t watched the episode (and I won’t). I’ve been gloriously spoiled, and I’m glad. SO GLAD. I won’t shed any tears, because it’s been a while since I’ve been emotionally involved with this show. But, still, I feel kind of cheated, in a way. Betrayed. Hoodwinked.

When you start watching a TV show, or you read a book, or go watch a movie, you enter into a contract with the writers. It’s a vague thing, but it sort of goes like this: You can break my heart, and then put it back together again. I understand. I won’t ask you not to. All I ask is for you to be fair. I’ll take it…as long as the journey makes sense.

THIS? This doesn’t make sense.  

I’ve lived through worse fictional deaths than this one (Oh, Lupin, Lupin). At first, understanding is a poor comfort. But with space, and time, you start to get it. There was a reason. IT SUCKED, but there was a reason. You take a deep breath. You let it go.

(How do you let this one go?)

Sometimes you start telling a story and find that the story you thought you were telling is not the right one. Take Arrow, for example. They thought they were going to tell us the great love story of Oliver and Laurel, and yet, three seasons later, they’re telling another great love story and Laurel is nowhere to be seen. And we smile. We like it. They sold their story. It makes sense, so we nod and we not only accept it, we embrace it.

(We don’t accept Derek. We can’t.)

At the end of the day, it’s fictional, some people will say. It doesn’t make a big difference in the grand scheme of things. And yes, maybe it doesn’t. Or maybe it does. Maybe it’s just me who will never, ever again, watch anything that is associated with Shonda Rhimes. And yes, that’s personal. I have loved some episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, and I have cried, and I have enjoyed it. And maybe I still could have. With the right story.

(This was not the right story) 

Books that made me who I am

Big words, I know. And yet, the truest I have ever spoken. Books don’t raise you, some people say. They can’t influence you that much. Those people clearly don’t read much, because books have taught me more than I can put into words. Books have shaped me; have given me ideas, desires, passions. (And better grammar and vocabulary, but that’s neither here nor there). Some books have influenced me more than others. They’re not the most beloved, nor, perhaps, the most important books I have ever read. But without these books I would be…well, someone else entirely. And since I quite like who I am, I think that’s to be celebrated.

So, without further ado:

1. Anne of Green Gables, Lucy Maud Montgomery. Anne taught me the wonders of being different. She taught me to love words, to appreciate the beauty of a perfect line of prose. Maybe I was meant to be a writer; perhaps I would have fallen into it anyway. But as it stands, I owe a debt of gratitude to Anne, for the words.

2. Harry Potter Series, J.K Rowling. The words are one thing, the idea is another. Harry taught me, in a way that perhaps no other book has before or after, how you can love a book, how you can drown in it, discuss it for hours, obsess over it, understand it, live it. It also, in a very roundabout way, taught me how to be brave, how to speak up, how to think for myself, and how to make friends.

3. The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini. My first experience (and to date the most harrowing) with the idea that a book can break your heart, and then heal it all over again, just like life.

4. The Gospel according to Jesus Christ, Jose Saramago. I had a hard time choosing between one Saramago book, because I think if this post were called authors that made me who I am, he’d be the first on the list. This book earns its place mostly because the lessons were harsher than in other books, what I got out of it more important. Because this book was a master class in asking questions, in challenging the status-quo, in not believing everything you see or hear.

5. The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Probably the first book of all the ones on this list I ever read, and one I re-read constantly. I wish I could say it taught me to think like a child (a tall order), but at least I can say it taught me to think outside the box, to see with the heart, in a way. To feel.

6. The madman, Kahlil Gibran. I first encountered this book many years ago, when I was young, and insecure, and terrified of being different. It’s not Gibran’s best known work, or its most renowned, but for me, it will forever signify acceptance, understanding, and maybe even permission to be who you are.

7. The Bicentennial Man, Isaac Asimov. My dad used to read me Asimov as a bedside story, and of all the stories I ever heard, this was the one that stuck with me, the one about changing, about being better than you are, about not accepting fate, but making your own.

8. In the Time of the Butterflies, Julia Alvarez. Reality is sometimes worse than fiction. It hurts just as much, if not more. And if we tell it, if we make it mean something, then, sometimes, we can change the world.

9. A time to Kill, John Grisham. Life is not fair, and fair is sometimes unfair. At the age this book fell into my hands, I couldn’t understand this concept, even though it was clearly outlined, but I’m still glad Grisham tried to teach me before it was time for life to do so.

10. The Perks of being a Wallflower, Stephen Chbosky. This book, I think, has influenced a lot of people, in a multitude of different ways. I re-read it recently, and the thing I can remember getting out of it, and it is a big thing, a life changing thing is this: Life goes on. You can get through it.

These are not the only books. I think every book you read leaves a little in you, even the books you hate.  But these are the ones I could write down without thinking, the most important ones, or perhaps, just the ones that better encompass this particular time of my life. I’ll keep reading. I’ll find more. Books are always there, and books will continue to help me become more of who I am. A better version of me. Maybe they’ll help me find the me inside the shell that is …well, me. That’s what they do. Even when you don’t want them to. 

My favorite books of the year

Sometime choosing a favorite book is like I suppose choosing a favorite kid would be. (And yet I don’t have kids, and I’m perfectly capable of choosing a favorite book, so maybe it isn’t like that). I read exactly 100 books this year, because that was my goal, and I’m big on goals and things like that (though I do have a few days to go so, who knows, maybe the round number will go up). Here are my Top 5 books of the year, and I swear, the order was harder than it was to wilt down the list to five.

South of the Border, West of the Sun, Haruki Murakami. The kind of love I have for Murakami defies explanations, so part of me thinks I shouldn’t even try, but I persevere, mostly to say that everyone should read him. There is something there for everyone. Most people I know who love Murakami have found something different to love about him. The language. The hidden messages. The subtleties. The directness. The evasiveness. I contradict myself, I know. That’s what Murakami does. That’s what he makes us do.   

This Is How You Lose Her, Junot Diaz. I discovered this author by chance, and if you discover him because of this list, then I will have done you some good. Come back and tell me so, if you can. I have gone on to read another one of his books and to purchase one of his novels, which I have just started reading and I can unequivocally say I haven’t enjoyed a new (FOR ME) author as much as him in years. Sometimes I don’t like his characters. Most times, in fact. That’s probably what makes him such a great writer. Because those characters you don’t like, they’re real people. You recognize them. You know them. That’s precisely why you don’t like them.

Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn. With all the hype surrounding this book, you’d think I would have read it before. But not, I’m contrary like this. I refused. I caved in just before the movie came out, mostly because I like to know things before I go see movies, and boy, am I glad I did. Reading the book is always a completely different experience than seeing a movie, and I’m glad I got all the twists and turns and the WTF and SERIOUSLY and, ARE YOU KIDDING ME’s are out of the way while reading a book. And whether I’m in the minority or not, as far as I’m concerned …the ending? Brilliant stuff.

Fear and Trembling, Amélie Nothomb. I love the title in Spanish much more, and I read the book in Spanish, but since we’re writing this in English, writing the title in Spanish did not make much sense. I contemplated leaving this book out of the list, since it seemed a little out of place, but the book has earned its spot. The author has earned its spot. There’s a certain sense of being out-of-place in the novel as well, that I could relate to. I guess, now that I think about it, we can all relate to it, one way or another.

Love Letters to the Dead, Ava Dellaria. I’m still not quite sure if this is a brilliant book or I read it in a sensitive time and it spoke to me, but the fact remains that it not only spoke to me it screamed, LOUDLY. And, what else do we ask of literature if not that?

                                          And, that’s me? What have you got? 

Hogwarts will always be there (to welcome you home)

Funny how I always seem to come back to Harry Potter. I think it’s because I found myself as a reader AND as a writer thanks to Harry, or, should I say, thanks to J.K Rowling. As a reader, because there was a lot of time in between books for conjectures and for discussing hidden clues and author intent, and as a writer, because, thanks to the HP fandom and the people I met while I was part of it (it feels like a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away), I was first introduced to the wonderful notion that hey, maybe I COULD do this. Maybe it was possible.

It’s been a long time. I’ve grown up (mostly). I’ve written (a whole lot). I’ve lost contact with most of the people I discussed the Harry/Ginny dynamic with (though, thankfully, not all of them. The important ones remain). And yet, walking into Diagon Alley, and then, later, into Hogsmeade, in a recent trip to Universal, I felt fifteen again, reading Harry Potter for the first time. I remembered midnight lines, dressing up and meeting up people I’d only talked to online to go wait on more lines and see a movie. I remembered the magic, and the awe, and that final chapter, the culmination of ten years of writing for an author, and of waiting, for its fans. And once again, I thought, let me write something like this. Something this wonderful, and complex, and …life-changing.

Perhaps I never will. Maybe I’m asking too much of the universe. Harry Potter has already given me more than one person should ask for. But more than all those things I’ve mentioned above, it’s given me lessons. Life lessons, yes, but also writing lessons. Plan ahead. Don’t yield to other people’s opinions, also. These are your characters, and no one knows them better than you. Take as much time as the story needs. And, above all those keep writing, even when you are at your lowest, even when things look bad, even when there’s nothing to be gained by it. Keep writing because that’s who you are. It’s what you do.

You write.              

                                                                                                                   

And, if you’re like me, you also plan a return trip to Hogwarts, this time, with those people who’d appreciate it just as much. Lessons are fun, and exploring is also fun, but there’s nothing quite like geeking out with people who understand what every little thing means, and how hard it was to get to that point.

So, Hogwarts next year? The butterbeer is on me. 

My favorite banned books

by @jesspetrella

There’s a certain magic in being told you can’t do something.  If teachers (and parents) could only understand that the word makes you want to do it even more, then they probably would dispense with the notion. But, even after all these years, we keep telling people not to do stuff. Not to think stuff. Not to read stuff.

Now, this is not meant to be a deep and philosophical post, so let’s just focus on the books you are, apparently, not supposed to read.

I was introduced to the idea of you can’t read books very, very late in life, for my parents never even mentioned it. I read Lolita, for example, at an age when I’m not wholly sure it was appropriate and if Saramago and Dan Brown thought they could surprise me with their theories on Jesus and/or the church, then they don’t know the kind of things I found in the library at home. Point is, I didn’t know, as I do know, that the moral police was out there, ready to tell you what you can and cannot read (possibly to try to influence what you can or cannot think).

Most of the so-called banned books are not banned now, though I’m sure there are many people who still consider them books to avoid. (The dangerous ideas you might GET from them, oh no …). And so, in honor of those people, I now present a LIST of my absolute favorite banned books I learned many dangerous things from them, indeed. How to think for myself. What freedom meant. The importance of speaking up.  

Just imagine what would happen if all kids read them.

(In no particular order)

1. The Great Gatsby. I always wanted to write this book. Not to write like Fitzgerald, I wanted to wake up having already written this wonderful book about not so great characters  who are, nevertheless, as real as they come.

2. Nineteen-eighty-four. How to explain fear if you can’t quote 1984? How to talk about dystopias? How to understand totalitarianism?

3.  Gone with the Wind. Scarlett O’Hara showed me woman can be strong. Against all odds. Even when it seems impossible.

4. Fahrenheit 451. Ironic, a book about banning books ends up banned because, well, it shows us that banning books doesn’t work. I love my ironies.

5.  Uncle Tom’s Cabin. History, and the best way to learn it. The best way to find an interested audience. Oh, Uncle Tom, how much you showed me.

How much they all showed me. Those on the list. Those new books who are not on any list but that people insist should be. There are many lessons to be learned from books, banned or otherwise, but the most important one, perhaps, is to make up your own mind. About what to read. And, also, about what to think, and what to do. 

Dr. Seuss, Magic and the ghost of bad days…

I was looking up some children’s books today, and though few things have made me feel better in the past few weeks, somehow, those books did the trick. Maybe it’s because lately I’ve been dreaming about going back to more innocent times. Maybe it’s because they’re simple. Straightforward. Perhaps they remind me of my dad, of easier times, of being happy.

Or maybe it’s that there’s magic in there. Real, undeniable magic. The kind you feel even though it makes no sense, the kind that lifts your spirits, brings a smile to your face. The magic of belief, of possibility, of hope. The magic of dreams.

Big words for simple books.

As kids, those are the things we learn. As adults, though, isn’t it true that, from time to time, we need a reminder of those lessons we learned when we were little? As toddlers we learn to dream and hope, and yet, sometimes, when we grow up, we lose sight of that. We lose sight of a great many thing.

I grew up surrounded by books, and yet I don’t remember reading most of the stereotypical children’s books till I was older. If I’m to be honest, I grew up surrounded by mostly age-inappropriate books, because my parents believed reading was good, and most things could/should be explained if kids were curious enough to ask.

There were a lot of questions.

Dr. Seuss might not seem like the most suitable reading for my age-group, but today, it brought a smile to my face. Considering how hard that’s been lately, and how today feels like an ominous day no matter where you happen to live, it was just what the doctor ordered. So, yes, it’s September 11^th, and thirteen years ago, bad things happened. And they keep happening. Every day. Some are violent, some are cruel, and some are public, but others are private. They don’t hurt any less because of a lack of publicity, though. We all have our secret sorrows. 

Sometimes the questions are complicated, and the answers are simple, Dr. Seuss said. But maybe that’s not the quote we should remember. Perhaps it all comes down to this:

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go...” 

We all knew what was coming on #GOT ...and yet it still killed us.

We should be used to this by now. Aren’t we used to this by now? Some of us should even be prepared (We’ve read the books, after all). If GRR Martin has done anything for our general consciousness as readers, it’s been make us tick-skinned. Strong. Nothing should surprise us. Nothing should crush us. And, of course, nothing, ABSOFREAKINGLUTELY NOTHING should make us go:

HBO / 7seven-hells.tumblr.com

But, of course, we haven’t learned. We never learned. We fell in love with Ned Stark first. Oh, Ned. How we loved you. You were the hero of the story. The good guy among the snakes. And, well, this was fantasy. We knew the rules of fantasy. Things were going to get crappy, but …rules were rules …the good guys always win.

Then this happened.

Image via Screen Junkies

And, we screamed, we cried, we were shocked, amazed, MAD, but …after a while, we got it. This was not the story we thought we were reading/watching. This was a story of rising from the ashes. This was a story of a family who overcomes. This was Rob’s story, not Ned’s.

Yeah, we all know how THAT turned out.

HBO / shammathegreat.com

But, at this point, we thought we were immune. After Ned, after Jory, and Septa Mordane, Lady and all the Baratheons (well, most of them), after Maester Luwin, and, of course, after the Red Wedding, we were immune. We didn’t love the characters with so much passion. We liked the show/books, yes, but we did so in a detached way.

Then came Oberyn Martell.

At first, he was merely funny. He wanted dead Lannisters, we wanted dead Lannisters, so we had  things in common. And Ellaria Sand was pretty and he clearly loved her. Enough to always included her in his orgies, at least. And, well, he wasn’t a hero, but he was charming, and a bit nasty, and, in the end, he was going to save Tyrion, of course he was, and he was going to get his revenge, he was Inigo Montoya and the Mountain better PREPARE TO DIE and …and …

Yes …and.

HBO / Via jamieclements.tumblr.com

So, thank you, GRR Martin. Thank you for crushing our collective souls once again. I wish I could say we’ve learned our lesson.

Until next time. 

#YesAllWomen

Have felt afraid to walk somewhere in the dark

.

Have had to endure catcalls and nasty pickup-lines

Have been called darling, honey, love, or something of the sort in regular conversation, often by people you don’t even know.

Have been ridiculed for dressing too conservative, too sexy, and sometimes both. AT THE SAME TIME.

Have had a professor who has stared at their boobs the entire class.

Have been judged by the way they dress.

Have been called slut, whore or another derivative. (Either that, or a prude)

Have bought/considered buying /wished they owned pepper spray.

Have texted a friend to say they got home safe.

Because, no #NotallMen harass women, but #YesAllWomen have felt harassed at some point or another.

Yes, yes, yes. 

Top 10 misconceptions about writing

1.  It’s easy. Oh, how I wish. In truth, it takes research, reading, planning, charts, floor plans, and lots of editing. (Like…when I say lots, I mean …LOTS. Months and months and months)
2. You need to wait for inspiration to strike. Not so. If you wait for inspiration, then you only write like once a week, if that. No, writers approach this as a job. You train your mind to work, just like you’d train your body for a marathon. And, after a while, inspiration is only a plus.
3. Writing and reading are separate. Writers are, first of all, readers. If you don’t read you can’t write. At least not efficiently, not in a way that reaches your readers, not in a way that changes things. For that you need to read.
4. The more words you use, the better the story. More often than not, the opposite is true. Most writers can express an idea in fifty words, but only a really good writer can express the same idea in fifteen, ten, or even five. Brevity is, after all, the soul of wit.
5. Writers are born, not made. I like to think it’s a combination of both. I know some extremely talented people who, recognizing their gifts, have refused to dedicated the time and effort that being a writer requires, and have remained mediocre, and I know less talented people who’ve transformed into brilliant writers by sheer force of will. Like any special talent or ability, you can get better at writing. All you have to do is work on it, and then work on it some more.
6. Truly skilled writers don’t need to edit. LIES, I TELL YOU. ALL LIES. No one gets it right on the first draft. Most of the times, the first draft is merely a way to get all your ideas out. Then comes the real work.
7.  Writers are weird, often drunk introverts with no friends. Thankfully, this is also not true. Like doctors, and lawyers, and architects, writers are all different. Most of the time, they’re not at all timid creatures. The good ones usually have friends (or first readers, however you want to call them) Though the wine thing isn’t really a lie.
8. Writers always enjoy writing. Sometimes writing is agony. There are moments when you want to fling your manuscript through the window and go do some manual labor. At times writing is like a sugar rush, wonderful and bright and then you crash down, and …it’s back to the torment. Good torment, but torment nonetheless.
9.  There is one method to writing, and that’s it. Some people plan every step their character takes. Others like to write in a way that their own characters will surprise them. No two writers are alike, and no two writing processes are alike. That’s the beauty of it.
10. All a writer ever does is write. We’re just like normal people. We cook. We do laundry. We go to the movies, read other books, work out, go to the beach. It’s just that …on the back of our heads, all those things mentioned above are part of a story. But we still do them. We need to. There are no stories if we don’t. 

Villains we love to hate (I): Javert

I love Les Miserables. You love Les Miserables. Everyone loves Les Miserables, especially after the movie. There are so many things that speak to us about it, the setting, the characters, the songs. Oh, yes. The songs. We might like the rest, but we really, really love the songs.

We hardly ever think about the book. Books don’t have songs, after all. (It’s true that no one told Tolkien this, but that’s another story). But behind that wonderful story, and those wonderful songs, lay the characters Victor Hugo created, and the story that, so many years ago, before I even knew that the musical existed, stole my heart.

How can you not love Jean Valjean? One wrong deed (and such a small thing, in the grand scheme of things), and yet he ends up paying for it tenfold. How can you not love Fantine, the woman who loved too much, tried too hard, and then lost it all? How can you not love Enjolras, the boy who believed in bigger things?

And, at the same time, how can you not hate Javert? He’s the perfect villain: singled-minded and ruthless. In a roundabout way, he’s even responsible for most of the woes that afflict Valjean after leaving jail. He is, after all, so relentless in his pursuit that Valjean, our hero, finds himself fleeing a happy and comfortable life, hiding for years, and then, once discovered, escaping again to protect the one person he loves desperately, Cosette.

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about villains and about Javert in particular. I’ve hated him for a while, the true hate of someone who read the book first, and frankly, ignored him for most of the movie. (I can’t even remember the actor playing Javert the one time I saw the musical). The bad guy wasn’t worth my time, after all.

But there are villains, and then, there are villains. (It scares me to think that this is a conclusion that can only be reached when you’re, gasp, not only well-read, but mature enough).The good ones usually have a backstory. Some of them even find redemption. Others are not really villains, just men and women who, faced with a set of circumstances, did not break from the mold.

There are those characters that, for one reason or another, did not behave like heroes.  

Javert belongs to the last category. He’s, simply put, a good cop. If Valjean had done something truly horrible, then, Javert would be, GASP, the hero of this tale. Except he didn’t. Not in our perception. So, of course, Javert just needs to chill. Perspective, and all that.

Easier said than done.

The beauty of Javert, possibly the most well-rounded character in Victor Hugo’s masterpiece, is that he’s a man of black and whites. We all know people like that. It’s either good, or bad. He isn’t a villain. He’s just doing the right thing. This man stole. Not, only that, after being released, he simply disappeared. The law had branded him a dangerous man, a man who had to be under constant vigilance. And yet this man defied the law. Javert IS the law.

As the song says, the law is not to be mocked.

The theme continues right till the end. Valjean, a character much more equipped to deal in shades of grey, saves Javert from a certain death. In a lesser book, this would cause a change in the character. But some people (and characters) don’t change, can’t change.

In this particular instance, the song says it better than I could, because in the musical, Javert sings:

There is nothing on earth that we share
It is either Valjean or Javert!

As simple and as complicated as that. To a man who only understands good and evil, this world cannot hold them both. And, I said before, Javert is not a villain, not in his mind. He’s a man of honor. A man of the law. Except, in this world he finds himself in, there is no law that he can understand, no honor that can appeal to him.

In the absence of those things, there can be no Javert.

I'll escape now from the world
From the world of Jean Valjean

It’s someone else’s world now, even if Valjean will never know, never understand. Some bad guys are redeemed, others perish, a few are left to live with regrets. And, yet, others, the best kind, are simply undone by those things that, in our mind, make a hero.

Perhaps, in those cases, we should remember not just the hero. Maybe, what we need is to realize that, sometimes, a hero is only one because the villain allows him to be so, and vice versa.