m. gillenormand

Okay so I want to post about a thing that seems to get overlooked a lot: Marius has a fairly dismal childhood himself!  He’s looked after and educated and so on, yes.  But he’s extremely isolated, and M. Gillenormand is a terrible parent. He’s not Thenardiers-level horrific, of course, but he is emotionally and verbally abusive to the point where, while the reader understands that he secretly loves Marius, Marius is in his twenties before he has any inkling of this.

And this is where a lot of Marius’s fail stems from – he’s a sheltered teenager who literally doesn’t know what healthy relationships look like.

Obviously I’m not gonna change any dedicated anti-Pontmercy minds here, and that’s not really my goal – but I do think this is an important aspect of his character that a lot of fandom doesn’t take into account. Also I should emphasize that a lot of this meta does not originate with me but with manypalimpsests, who has all the clevers but does not have way too much time on her hands.

Lots of Brick quotations and teal deer follow.

Keep reading

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les mis in paris, site #6: marius’s grandfather’s house at 6, rue des filles du calvaire:

(this is where jean valjean brings marius from the sewers, and where marius convalesced from his wounds with cosette.)

previously:

the corinthe / site of the barricade

16, rue de la verrerie

the elephant of the bastille

l’église saint-paul-saint-louis

the barrière du maine

jehnt a réagi à votre billet “for reference: other options for Bahorel in The Worst Les Mis…”

Now I think the actual worst les mis playlist would be les mis characters as songs from les mis they didn’t sing in

h-holy crap … you’re right

Valjean - I Dreamed a Dream (I had a dream my life would be / so different from this hell I’m living / so different now from what it seemed / now life has killed the dream I dreamed)

Javert - A Heart Full of Love (in my life / [he] has burst like the music of angels, the light of the sun / and my life seems to stop as if something is over / and something has scarcely begun / in my life / there’s been no one like him anywhere)

Fantine - Valjean’s Soliloquy (if there’s another way to go / I missed it twenty long years ago / my life was a war that could never be won / I am reaching, but I fall / and the night is closing in)

Cosette - Red and Black (it is time for us all to decide who we are / do we fight for the right to a night at the opera now? / have you asked of yourselves what’s the price you might pay? / is this simply a game for a rich young boy to play? / the colours of the world are changing day by day)

Marius (about his father)  - On My Own (sometimes I walk alone at night / when everybody else is sleeping / I think of him and then I’m happy / with the company I’m keeping / the city goes to bed / and I can live inside my head)

Enjolras - Stars (those who follow the path of the righteous / shall have their reward /  stars in your multitudes, scarce to be counted / filling the darkness with order and light / you are the sentinels, silent and sure / keeping watch in the night)

Grantaire - At the End of the Day (at the end of the day you’re another day older / and that’s all you can say for the life of the poor / it’s a struggle, it’s a war / and there’s nothing that anyone’s giving / one more day standing about, what is it for? / one day less to be living)

Les Thenardier - The Confrontation (you know nothing of [Thenardier] / I was born inside a jail / I was born with scum like you / I am from the gutter too)

Eponine - Castle on a Cloud (there is a castle on a cloud / I like to go there in my sleep, / aren’t any floors for me to sweep / not in my castle on a cloud)

Mlle. Gillenormand (about M. Gillenormand) - Master of the House (Master of the house? Isn’t worth my spit! / comforter, philosopher’ and lifelong shit! / cunning little brain, regular Voltaire / thinks he’s quite a lover but there’s not much there / what a cruel trick of nature landed me with such a louse / God knows how I’ve lasted living with this bastard in the house!)

Gavroche - Epilogue (for the wretched of the earth / there is a flame that never dies / even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise)


BONUS:

Bahorel - Look Down (I know the meaning of those 19 years / a slave of the law)

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One morning it came to pass that M. Gillenormand spoke slightingly of the Convention, apropos of a newspaper which had fallen into his hands, and gave vent to a Royalist harangue on Danton, Saint-Juste and Robespierre. —"The men of ‘93 were giants,“ said Marius with severity. The old man held his peace, and uttered not a sound during the remainder of that day.


Les Misérables (Victory Hugo), Volume V

pilferingapples  asked:

More of the fakest fake dating story? Marius, Grantaire and Bahorel continuing to horrify Gillenormand is always fantastic. (and happy birthday!)

Please enjoy this Serious Work of Serious Literature, written entirely under the influence of the Plague (or possibly a head cold)

(original post)


Marius glared up at his grandfather’s house. The house did not glare back, but not, Marius suspected, from lack of trying. He walked on past, gloomily surveying the street around him.

The morning was sunny and beautiful and horribly terrible. A pair of birds flew by, singing to each other. Marius contemplated throwing a rock at them. Life was terrible and cruel.

“Life is terrible and cruel,” he announced to no one in particular. The birds continued to sing, rudely ignoring his pronouncement. They were probably laughing at him. Did birds laugh?

A woman walking by took one look at him and pulled her child closer to her. Marius supposed he must look out of place on this street with his poor, worn clothes. His grandfather would never listen to him. No one would. The passersby were probably laughing at him for daring to come to this part of town.

That man over there was definitely laughing at him.

Marius prepared a haughty glance – dignified yet cutting – before his brain caught up with him and identified the man.

“Ho there, Pontmercy!” Bahorel called out. He had an arm around the nearly prone figure of Grantaire, who was leaning against him with all the attention and vigor of a corpse. “What are you doing here?”

Keep reading

No Marius he is neither alive nor well

“Didn’t you have an intimate friend?”

“Yes, Courfeyrac.”

“What has become of him?”

“He was dead,” said Marius, “but then I conducted a forbidden dark summoning ritual to forcibly tear him from the clutches of the grave. His eyes have no pupils and he can only eat human hair, but you know, at least he’s around! He is alive and well.“

M. Gillenormand was perturbed.

The Grandfather

I really, really love M. Gillenormand’s rant (V.3.12) to Marius’ ‘corpse.'  On one hand, it’s comical, because Marius is alive and everyone else in the room knows it.  On the other, it’s deeply, deeply tragic, because I see Gillenormand’s wonderfully human cry of anguish as speaking for all those parents - real and fictional - who lost children in the unrest of those decades. I could easily see, say, Courfeyrac’s father fighting with similar sentiments.

Some excerpts.  Hapgood copy-paste because I’m lazy:

He is dead! He is dead! He is dead! He has got himself killed on the barricades! Out of hatred to me! He did that to spite me! Ah! You blood-drinker! This is the way he returns to me! Misery of my life, he is dead!  Pierced, sabred, exterminated, slashed, hacked in pieces! Just look at that, the villain!

…I am composed, I am a man, I witnessed the death of Louis XVI., I know how to bear events. One thing is terrible and that is to think that it is your newspapers which do all the mischief. You will have scribblers, chatterers, lawyers, orators, tribunes, discussions, progress, enlightenment, the rights of man, the liberty of the press, and this is the way that your children will be brought home to you. Ah! Marius! It is abominable! Killed! Dead before me! A barricade! Ah, the scamp! […] This is a child whom I have reared. I was already old while he was very young. He played in the Tuileries garden with his little shovel and his little chair, and in order that the inspectors might not grumble, I stopped up the holes that he made in the earth with his shovel, with my cane. One day he exclaimed: Down with Louis XVIII.! and off he went. It was no fault of mine. He was all rosy and blond. […] I talked in a deep voice, and I frightened him with my cane, but he knew very well that it was only to make him laugh. In the morning, when he entered my room, I grumbled, but he was like the sunlight to me, all the same. One cannot defend oneself against those brats. They take hold of you, they hold you fast, they never let you go again. The truth is, that there never was a cupid like that child. Now, what can you say for your Lafayettes, your Benjamin Constants, and your Tirecuir de Corcelles who have killed him? This cannot be allowed to pass in this fashion.

Ah! heartless lad! Ah! clubbist! Ah! wretch! Ah! Septembrist!

It is all the same to me, I am going to die too, that I am. And to think that there is not a hussy in Paris who would not have been delighted to make this wretch happy! A scamp who, instead of amusing himself and enjoying life, went off to fight and get himself shot down like a brute! And for whom? Why? For the Republic! Instead of going to dance at the Chaumiere, as it is the duty of young folks to do! What’s the use of being twenty years old? The Republic, a cursed pretty folly! Poor mothers, beget fine boys, do! Come, he is dead. That will make two funerals under the same carriage gate. So you have got yourself arranged like this for the sake of General Lamarque’s handsome eyes! What had that General Lamarque done to you? A slasher! A chatter-box! To get oneself killed for a dead man! If that isn’t enough to drive any one mad! Just think of it! At twenty! And without so much as turning his head to see whether he was not leaving something behind him! That’s the way poor, good old fellows are forced to die alone, now-adays. […]  Yes, this age is infamous, infamous and that’s what I think of you, of your ideas, of your systems, of your masters, of your oracles, of your doctors, of your scape-graces of writers, of your rascally philosophers, and of all the revolutions which, for the last sixty years, have been frightening the flocks of crows in the Tuileries! But you were pitiless in getting yourself killed like this, I shall not even grieve over your death, do you understand, you assassin?

It’s very much a moment where I need to laugh so I don’t cry.