Victor Hugo is some kind of genius. His brilliant insights into faith, human nature, politics, culture, and life in general, really shine through in Les Miserables. Here's a scene from the book that really struck a chord with me, and, considering the circumstances, it's apropos. In the scene Marius Pontmercy -- who never knew his father -- was attending mass, sitting quietly in an out of the way spot, when an old man approached him, wanting his seat:

"I don't want you to have a bad impression of me. You see I think a great deal of that place. The mass seems better to me there. Why? I'll tell you why. For ten years, regularly, every two or three months, I would see a poor, brave father come to that spot; he had no other opportunity and no other way of seeing his child, as he was prevented through some family agreement. He came at the hour when he knew his son was brought to mass. The little one never suspected that his father was here. Perhaps he did not even know that he had a father, the innocent child! The father would stay behind a pillar, so that nobody would see him. He looked at his child, and he wept. This poor man worshiped the little boy. I could see that. . . . He is dead, I believe . . . his name is something like Pontmarie, Montpercy. . . ."

"Pontmercy," said Marius, turning pale.

"Exactly; Pontmercy. Did you know him?"

"Monsieur," said Marius, "he was my father."

The old churchwarden clasped his hands, and exclaimed, "Ah! You are the child! Yes, that is it; he ought to be a man by now. Well! Poor child, you can say you had a father who loved you dearly." (Pg. 629)

He was filled with regret and remorse, and he reflected with despair that he could not divulge all his inmost thoughts except to a tomb. Oh! If only his father were living, if he still had him, if God in his mercy and goodness had allowed his father to be still alive, how he would have run, how he would have hurtled, how he would have cried out to his father, "Father! I'm here! My beliefs are the same as yours! I am your son!" How he would have embraced his white head, wet his hair with tears, gazed at his scar, taken him by the hand, admired his clothing, kissed his feet! Oh! Why had this father died so soon, so young, before justice was rendered, before the love of his son! Marius felt a continual pang in his heart. . . ." (pg. 631)