Essays on literary works - 2024

The Enduring Appeal of Edmond Dantes

There’s something unhinged about how we keep coming back to The Count of Monte Cristo. Like, you’d think we’d be over it. Old-timey revenge fantasy? Nineteenth-century man pain? A book that’s longer than some people’s therapy journeys? And yet—we stan. We rewatch the movies, reread the 1,200-page brick, make TikToks about “emotional support characters who committed light treason.” Because Dantès isn’t just a character. He’s an energy. A vibe. A trauma aesthetic wrapped in a tailored cloak, tossing gold at people like an emotionally shattered Batman with a God complex.

Let’s talk about it.

The Trauma Glow-Up: Why Every Sad Boy Thinks He’s Edmond Dantès

Imagine being 19, engaged, getting that sweet job promotion, and then BAM—gaslit, gatekept, and girlbossed straight into a dungeon. For fourteen years. With no Netflix. No serotonin. Just rats, rocks, and regret.

And when you come out? You’re hot, rich, educated, multilingual, emotionally unavailable, and hellbent on revenge.

He’s literally the blueprint. Dantès walked so Zuko, John Wick, and every sad-eyed anime protagonist could run. It’s the post-betrayal transformation arc Gen Z dreams of during a depressive shower. We love a good glow-up, but this one? Fueled by pure spite and existential loneliness. Delicious.

But the glow-up isn’t just external—it’s philosophical. Dantès isn’t just seeking vengeance. He’s deconstructing the social order. Dismantling institutions. Performing psychological warfare on the people who ruined his life. He becomes a symbol. Not a man anymore. A force. A French Gothic trauma ghost in Gucci robes.

Is He the Villain? Is He the Hero? Is He... a Tumblr Sexyman?

We don’t love Dantès because he’s a good guy. We love him because he’s a hot mess in a cape with righteous fury and dangerous cheekbones. He’s not morally pure—he ruins lives, traumatizes children, plays 4D chess with people’s souls. But he does it with such style. And restraint. And plot development. So we let him cook.

This duality? Chef’s kiss. One second he’s handing a starving man a fortune, the next he’s gaslighting an old friend into self-destruction. He’s like if Mr. Darcy had rage issues and a vengeance kink. He’s the embodiment of that “what if I used my pain to become unstoppable” fantasy—and honestly, that’s hot.

Also, yes, let’s talk about the Tumblrification of Edmond Dantès. Brooding? Check. Complex moral code? Check. Book smarts + combat skills? Absolutely. Hair probably smells like sandalwood and metaphor. He’s a walking fanfic prompt. The “revenge daddy” archetype that fan culture eats up with a silver spoon.

The Revenge Plot That Launched a Thousand Subreddits

Revenge arcs are the psychological junk food of storytelling. And Monte Cristo is the original five-course meal. This isn’t some sloppy shoot-'em-up. It’s methodical, slow-burn, artisanal destruction. Dantès doesn’t just pull the trigger—he builds an elaborate emotional mousetrap, waits for you to enter, then closes it with a single eyebrow raise.

He’s not content with making people pay. He makes them understand. He’s vengeance with a philosophy minor.

And the structure of the novel—real talk—is fanfic-level indulgent. Secret identities. Hidden treasures. Elaborate schemes. Found family (hello, Haydée). Enemies to ashes to allies. Dueling moralities. All of it slaps.

Reddit loves a revenge fantasy. We get threads like “Am I the Dantès in my friend group?” or “My boss pulled a Villefort—do I burn his life down or nah?” Dantès gives us a framework for our anger. A permission slip for controlled chaos. A template for turning personal betrayal into strategic aesthetic destruction.

Haydée, Loyalty, and the Soft Edge of Dantès

Okay, but let’s pause the fire and brimstone to talk about tenderness. Because for all the cold-blooded retribution, Dantès still has a heart. Somewhere deep under the trauma calluses.

The relationship with Haydée is complicated—yes, she was technically enslaved, yes, there are power dynamics—but also, the way she chooses him, loves him, saves him from his own vengeance spiral? It's giving "you’re more than your pain." She's the only person who sees the man behind the mask and loves him not despite his damage, but through it.

It’s not quite a redemption arc, but it’s a softening. An antihero realizing he’s burned enough bridges to light a thousand cities and maybe—just maybe—it’s time to walk toward warmth instead.

Also, the drama. The poetry. The “I will love you even if you remain a ghost forever” energy. It’s giving Persephone. It's giving “if he wanted to, he would—and he did, he ruined an empire for love.”

The Count as Gen Z's Patron Saint of Weaponized Healing

So why is The Count of Monte Cristo still living rent-free in our brains, 180 years later?

Because revenge isn’t just about hurting people. It’s about reclaiming your narrative. And in a world that gaslights you, commodifies you, ghosts you, and then asks you to be grateful, Edmond Dantès is the original dissociative daydream fantasy.

He’s not just revenge. He’s retribution—surgical, divine, unapologetic. He’s what you imagine during a doom scroll when someone subtweets you and your brain goes full villain origin story. He’s every therapy session you turn into a script for a monologue. He’s “no, I don’t want peace, I want problems always”—but classy.

Dantès gives you permission to become. To rise from betrayal not just intact but dangerous. He’s the ghost of justice in a broken world. The patron saint of weaponized healing. And we need that. Because half the time, life feels like the Château d’If and the other half, we’re just trying to find the treasure that makes it worth surviving.

And Yet... He Walks Away

This is where Dumas does what a lot of modern revenge stories can’t: he ends it.

Dantès wins. Kind of. But also loses. A lot. He’s destroyed lives. Saved a few. Lost his own soul and slowly stitched it back together. And then he leaves. Not in triumph. Not in shame. But in this weird, poetic limbo where he’s not quite a hero or villain or even human anymore.

He leaves us with one of the most underrated, devastating, hopeful lines in literature:

“Wait and hope.”

Not “forgive.” Not “move on.” Just wait. And hope. As in: it’s okay to not be healed yet. To still be angry. To still not know who you are on the other side of the fire.

That’s what makes Dantès eternal. He’s not finished. He’s evolving. Like us.

Final Thought Drop (Not a Conclusion)

So yeah. Edmond Dantès is not just a literary character. He’s a whole damn coping mechanism. He’s the emotionally unavailable icon of your dreams. He’s vengeance wrapped in velvet, sipping espresso, quoting Dante while making your enemies cry in 4K.

We come back to him not because he’s perfect, but because he reflects the chaos of survival. Because some days, we don’t want forgiveness. We want fire. And sometimes the most healing thing you can do is become legend.

Now go forth. Weaponize your glow-up. Name your trauma. Petty is a virtue. And Dantès? Still undefeated.