"It is most pleasant to commit a just action which is disagreeable to someone whom one does not like"
About this Quote
Hugo pins down a sly paradox of moral life: the sweetness of doing the right thing is sharpened when it frustrates someone we already distrust. The line exposes how virtue can mingle with a whisper of spite. A just action carries its own intrinsic satisfaction; add the fact that it happens to thwart the designs or comfort of an antagonist, and the pleasure intensifies. Rather than glorifying malice, the observation acknowledges the mixed motives of ordinary people and the energizing role of opposition.
That blend mirrors Hugo’s world. As a public figure who battled censorship, clerical rigidity, and authoritarian power, he relished acts of conscience that also unsettled the comfortable. His exile after denouncing Napoleon III turned his pen into a weapon, and works like Napoleon the Little and Les Chatiments practice precisely what the line suggests: justice done in words meant to disturb those who had misused their authority. The gratification lies not merely in scoring a point, but in affirming that moral action can be adversarial without ceasing to be moral.
His fiction is full of this tension. Jean Valjean’s mercy and generosity repeatedly disarm and irritate those committed to a narrow legalism, epitomized by Javert. The saintliness of Bishop Myriel throws petty self-interest into relief, pricking the pride of those he shames by sheer goodness. Even small gestures of integrity in Les Miserables often embarrass the corrupt or the complacent, and the discomfort they feel becomes proof that something just has been done.
The line finally serves as both confession and strategy. It admits the human thrill of seeing the unjust unsettled, yet it also hints at a useful alignment: better that our pleasures be tied to justice than to cruelty. If the displeasure of those we do not like is the byproduct of a right action, savoring it can strengthen resolve, so long as the aim remains the just act itself.
That blend mirrors Hugo’s world. As a public figure who battled censorship, clerical rigidity, and authoritarian power, he relished acts of conscience that also unsettled the comfortable. His exile after denouncing Napoleon III turned his pen into a weapon, and works like Napoleon the Little and Les Chatiments practice precisely what the line suggests: justice done in words meant to disturb those who had misused their authority. The gratification lies not merely in scoring a point, but in affirming that moral action can be adversarial without ceasing to be moral.
His fiction is full of this tension. Jean Valjean’s mercy and generosity repeatedly disarm and irritate those committed to a narrow legalism, epitomized by Javert. The saintliness of Bishop Myriel throws petty self-interest into relief, pricking the pride of those he shames by sheer goodness. Even small gestures of integrity in Les Miserables often embarrass the corrupt or the complacent, and the discomfort they feel becomes proof that something just has been done.
The line finally serves as both confession and strategy. It admits the human thrill of seeing the unjust unsettled, yet it also hints at a useful alignment: better that our pleasures be tied to justice than to cruelty. If the displeasure of those we do not like is the byproduct of a right action, savoring it can strengthen resolve, so long as the aim remains the just act itself.
Quote Details
| Topic | Justice |
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