Like millions of fellow fans, I recently saw Les Miserables in the theatre. Despite a few flaws, I loved the film – I teared up half a dozen times, and both my husband and I wept at the end. (I fully expected to do so, but he never cries at movies.) But as I stood in the darkened theatre afterward watching the credits, I was thinking about Kate.
(Image from Barnes & Noble)
Kate lived down the street from me when we were growing up, and she and her big sister, Brooke, introduced me to (among other things) Ace of Base, Rent, Chinese food, and Les Mis. When Kate played Brooke’s copy of the soundtrack for me one day, I was enthralled by the story of Valjean and Fantine and Javert. I begged to borrow the double CD, and kept it for weeks, even taking it on the youth group ski trip over Christmas break. I spent hours on the bus with my Discman in my lap, staring out the window, absorbed in the music, swept up in its power.
Later, I bought my own copy of the soundtrack: the same version Brooke owned, the 10th anniversary concert at the Royal Albert Hall. (This means I was thrilled to see Colm Wilkinson, who plays Jean Valjean in that performance, reappear as the Bishop in the film.) During my first semester in Oxford, two girlfriends and I squeezed into a box in a London theatre and watched the stage musical, leaning over the edge to catch every word.
The story of Les Mis is powerful in its own right. But it takes on additional significance when I remember how I came to it in the first place, who introduced it to me, the memories associated with hearing and seeing it for the first time. It’s inextricably tied up with dear friends, a city I love, and that delicious sense of discovering a story you can live in.
Not all my favorite stories have such specific memories attached to them: many of them simply came to me from my parents or were discovered at school or in a bookstore. But I’ve talked at length about how Valerie was responsible for my introduction to Harry Potter. My dad, and the first brilliant film, catapulted me into a deep love of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I found an advance copy of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society in an Oxford bookshop, before I really knew what advance copies were and before the book became a fan favorite. And a dear friend handed me Winter Solstice at just the right time, six Christmases ago.
When I write my frequent book roundups, I find myself noting where I discovered a book, or who told me about it, or whose review convinced me to pick it up. I believe those “origin stories” can deepen our enjoyment of books and films and music, while we still appreciate the things for themselves. My attachment to Les Mis began, and has certainly been enriched, because of Kate and Brooke, and that long-ago afternoon lounging in Kate’s room, listening to the people sing.
cakes, tea and dreams 
This is so lovely and true. The origin stories definitely add something to a favorite book or film. I love yours about Guernsey!
I love hearing origin stories and this is a great one! Ah, Les Mis.
I love this so much. I came to Les Mis because I told my brother that he should join the drama class, though he was probably a poor fit for it. But he loved it, and he traveled with them to New York every year to see a musical, and one year he came home with the soundtrack to Les Mis. Soon after, it lived in the tape deck of my car and there it stayed, for months. So through the movie, I was thinking of him and who he was in high school. It was lovely.
Oh, Katie. Great, great post.
My husband actually brought me to Les Mis. He read the book – yes, all 1000 or so pages – and told me that is was amazing. So for Christmas a few years ago, I bought us tickets to see the show. We’ve been fans ever since (although I still haven’t read the book)!
My “origin stories” often involve places just as much as people. I bought a used Chinese novel in Kampala, Uganda, and I will never get rid of that book. I also have random signed paperbacks from Manhattan, a book bag from Oxford, journals from all over the place.
The stories put things in context, don’t they? I have a copy of The Women’s Room, gifted to me by a man I deeply respected and admired. He inscribed it beautifully, in a way that made sense to us. I loaned it to a friend who didn’t return it. She replaced the copy, but of course, without the inscription. It pains me when I see it on the shelf. I recall exactly what he wrote, but I can’t see it in his handwriting. Still, I treasure the book, and there is a quote from it that I send to new mothers – every baby since I became a mother myself. Thank you for the post, Katie – I haven’t thought of that story in a long time.