A Tale of Two Cities

In England, our family lived in Bloomsbury—a neighborhood long regarded as London’s literary heart. Even within a city steeped in literary history, Bloomsbury is especially known for attracting writers. Our own building, for instance, once housed Virginia Woolf in her final years. Just a few steps from our front door, we could find numerous homes adorned with blue plaques, signaling historically significant sites. In Bloomsbury, this often means a famous author once lived there.

At the time, I was responsible for taking my daughter, then a first grader, to and from school. It was about a 10-minute walk, but on dry days we each rode our kick scooters and usually arrived even earlier. Each morning, we would pass through a garden enclosed by towering plane trees.¹ My daughter and I would scoot along the edge of this garden until we reached the first street crossing.

Directly across that street stands the former residence of another literary giant of the Victorian era—Charles Dickens. Widely considered England’s greatest novelist after Shakespeare and now laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, Dickens once lived in that very house. It’s now the Charles Dickens Museum, though the building remains so unassuming it would blend in completely were it not for the museum sign.

A Tale of Two Cities is one of Dickens’ most renowned works, set against the backdrop of the French Revolution. Among his many celebrated novels, this one stands out for its tightly woven plot. Events introduced early in the book connect seamlessly to later developments through ingenious foreshadowing. Each character, no matter how minor they first appear, serves a significant role in the narrative, giving the novel the cohesive feel of a well-crafted stage play by the final page.

Two characters, in particular, left a lasting impression. Madame Defarge, who at first seems like a harmless woman obsessed with knitting, ultimately reveals herself to be the novel’s most chilling villain. Conversely, Sydney Carton—initially portrayed as a meek, inconsequential man—undergoes a dramatic transformation into a figure of profound self-sacrifice. In fact, characters like Doctor Manette, Lucie, Jarvis Lorry, and Charles Darnay—who seem central at first—might be seen as well-trained extras. The real protagonists might well be Madame Defarge and Sydney Carton, who embody the story’s deepest conflict, despite crossing paths only once and never directly clashing.

What struck me most in the novel was Dickens’ portrayal of the aristocracy’s abuse of power and the revolutionary fervor it provoked among the citizens of Paris. While he spares no detail in showing the brutality of the nobles, he is equally unsparing in his depiction of the mob’s ignorance and cruelty during the revolution. The cause-and-effect dynamics between the ruling class and the oppressed are described with an almost chilling clarity. Though Dickens is often known for his sympathy toward the poor, A Tale of Two Cities clearly issues a warning about the dangers of violence when combined with poverty.

One scene that particularly resonated with me was when the people of Paris embrace Doctor Manette simply because he had once been imprisoned in the Bastille. It reminded me of how, in modern politics, support often stems from perceived affinity rather than principled alignment. Both cases reflect a prioritization of emotional connection over rational judgment, and a tendency to protect one’s status rather than pursue the common good.

As the novel progresses toward its end, the guillotine appears with increasing frequency, with vivid descriptions of heads severed from bodies. I believe this isn’t just because of the French Revolution setting. The guillotine, with its brutal separation of head and body, seems to symbolize the disastrous consequences of deepening hatred, resentment, and vengeance between classes. While I’m no literature expert, this symbolic interpretation felt plausible.

Turning to the present, I can’t help but draw parallels with our own society. The divisions—rich and poor, conservative and liberal, male and female—seem just as stark. Each group sees the other as the enemy, shouting to assert their positions with little room for empathy. Issues like low birth rates, hate, and resentment are perhaps modern equivalents of the guillotine. I worry that we are marching steadily toward our own symbolic execution block. I can only hope that we never allow our collective “neck” to rest on that scaffold.