Essays on literary works - 2024

Living by Honor: Lessons from Dumas and Verne

Let’s get one thing straight before the literary ghost bros rise from their graves to haunt me: I am not here to resurrect the concept of “honor” like some dusty knight slapping on a rusted breastplate for a duel at dawn. We do not live in that world. We live in a world of swipe culture, irony poisoning, meme-speed hypocrisy, and weirdly sincere shitposts. Honor? In this economy?

And yet—and yet—there’s something weirdly sticky, weirdly haunting, about the way Alexandre Dumas and Jules Verne built their fictional worlds around that word. Not as performance. Not as “moral superiority” (ew). But as a code. A chaotic, often self-destructive, but unflinchingly committed code. Not always good. Not always right. But real.

So yeah, let’s talk about honor. Not because we need it like water—but maybe like a controlled burn. Like a fever dream that teaches you something before it sweats out of your system.

Dumas: Swords, Secrets, and the Inconvenient Problem of Loyalty

First off, Dumas. King of Swag. The man wrote The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Man in the Iron Mask—like bro, he basically invented the original cinematic universe.

And his characters? They live and die by vibes. Honor vibes. Swashbuckling ones.

But here’s the trick: in Dumas’ world, honor is less about doing the right thing™ and more about never betraying the code you chose—even if it wrecks your life. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan—those boys are messy. Like toxic group chat energy messy. But they ride or die for each other. Like, literally. If one gets into a duel, the others show up without even knowing who they’re fighting. It’s not smart. It’s not even noble. But it’s... loyal.

And loyalty, in the Dumas-verse, is messy as hell. It’s not about being loyal to the best cause—it’s about staying true to your people. Even if they’re problematic. Even if the world burns down. Even if you're stuck in a plot that’s spiraling like a K-drama on caffeine.

Dumas’ sense of honor isn’t about clarity—it’s about constancy. Think less “moral compass” and more “you ride the rollercoaster with your crew until it flies off the track.”

Which sounds dumb. But also—kind of hot?

Verne: Science, Obsession, and the Honor of Curiosity

Then there’s Jules Verne, our favorite French science prophet with a side of Victorian emo. While Dumas’ honor is about sword fights and brotherhood and “you insulted my hat, prepare to die,” Verne’s flavor is weirder. Nerdier. Quieter. But just as intense.

In Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Captain Nemo is basically an honorary Tumblr icon. He’s got aesthetic, he’s got trauma, and he’s got a submarine full of revenge and sadboy monologues. His whole vibe? “I live in exile because the world is trash, and I will not participate in its lies.”

That’s honor too. But it’s inward-facing. Private. Invented. Nemo isn’t trying to be righteous—he’s trying to be coherent in a world that broke his heart. That’s some dark academia moral architecture right there. And while you might disagree with him (he literally kills people with torpedoes, okay), you can’t say he’s inconsistent.

Same goes for Professor Lidenbrock in Journey to the Center of the Earth. This man literally DRAGS his family into the pits of the Earth because he found a note in Icelandic and was like, “Yep. We’re going.” Obsession? Sure. But also—respect for the idea that knowledge matters. That chasing wonder, even recklessly, is a kind of spiritual discipline.

Honor, here, isn’t about other people. It’s about refusing to betray your own hunger to know more. To go deeper. Even if it’s impractical. Even if it’s dangerous. Even if it doesn’t go viral.

Which is... kind of revolutionary? Especially now, when half the internet is monetized nonsense and the other half is “hot takes” that dissolve within 36 hours. Verne’s characters are allergic to surface-level anything. They dig. They dive. They risk.

So yeah, maybe Captain Nemo would be insufferable in a group chat. But you’d never accuse him of being fake.

Okay, But What Even Is Honor Now?

Here’s the messy part. The squirmy, uncomfortable, cancel-prone part: Honor, as a concept, is out of fashion. It smells like toxic masculinity. It vibes like colonial cringe. It echoes with duels, debts, patriarchy, and gatekeeping.

And a lot of that critique is 100% deserved. You don’t get to romanticize 19th-century French white men without unpacking the baggage. That’s not what this is about.

This is about what survives.

Because—strangely—some part of honor does survive. Not as rules. But as resonance. As a stubborn little voice in your chest that says: “Don’t flake.” “Don’t sell out your friends for clout.” “Keep your word even when it’s hard.” “Care. Even when caring is cringe.”

We don’t have musketeers anymore. We have mutuals. We don’t duel—we subtweet. But the emotional core? The messy fidelity to something invisible and inconvenient and bigger than yourself? That still hits.

It hits in fandoms. It hits in activism. It hits in group chats where one person spirals and everyone else shows up with memes, voice notes, and unsolicited astrology readings. It hits when people stand for something that doesn’t trend well. Or stay loyal to someone after their “brand” goes off-script.

Honor today isn’t about virtue. It’s about not abandoning your values when they stop being popular.

So What Do We Do With Dumas and Verne?

Honestly? We remix them.

We take Dumas’ chaotic brotherhood and say: What if we built community like that—but more inclusive, more accountable, more consensual? What if “all for one and one for all” included everyone, not just dudes with swords?

We take Verne’s obsessive curiosity and say: What if we followed our weird intellectual passions without shame—even when they don’t convert to content?

We stop trying to moralize their stories and instead treat them like fuel. Like metaphors. Like drama-tinted, camp-coded roadmaps for being a person who cares too much in a world that teaches you not to.

TL;DR (but not really)

Dumas teaches us that sticking by your people—even when it’s messy, inconvenient, or flat-out dumb—is still kind of beautiful.

Verne teaches us that following your passion—even when it’s niche, intense, or lowkey deranged—is still kind of brave.

Honor, in their hands, isn’t about being better than everyone else. It’s about not betraying what you chose to believe in—even if it hurts. Even if no one claps. Even if it’s not on trend.

In a culture drowning in irony and performance, that kind of raw commitment? Feels weirdly revolutionary.

So yeah. Honor’s not dead. It just logged off. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s waiting for the right messy bitch with a vision board and a sword to log it back on.