Ever since I was 14, I’ve wanted to read The Count of Monte Cristo. To witness Edmond Dantès—a 19-year-old wrongfully imprisoned sailor—transform into the all-powerful, mysterious Count of Monte Cristo seeking long-awaited justice was a journey I longed to take. Five years later, I embarked on this 1,200-page odyssey of betrayal, revenge, and justice  infused with subplots of poisoning, attempted infanticide, and forged identities.

The novel follows Dantès—a young sailor poised for a promotion, beloved by his crew, and engaged to a woman he loves deeply. However, his happiness is short-lived as his big promotion and beautiful fiancé incite envy and hatred in the men around him. Danglars, Fernand, and Caderousse conspire to destroy Dantès, accusing him of being a Bonapartist agent infiltrating the reign of Louis XVIII. Their motivations differ from envy to love to cowardice, but together, along with the ambition of the crown prosecutor Villefort, they secure the wrongful imprisonment of Dantès. After spending fourteen years at the Chateau d’If, Dantès escapes and uncovers an immense amount of treasure on the island of Monte Cristo, thereby re-inventing himself as the Count of Monte Cristo.

The Count’s quest for revenge and justice is a long one, and Alexandre Dumas resists offering easy answers to morally ambiguous situations within the novel. When the consequences of his plot for revenge lead to a suicide, an accidental poisoning of a child, descent into mental insanity, and financial ruin, the Count is left to question whether justice is fully restored. The consequences of his actions invite the reader to grapple with their own moral judgments: is retribution moral, or would restorative justice suffice? Should the Count be responsible for the unintentional deaths caused by his quest? And who determines how much suffering is enough for a crime?

Outside of the fictional walls of the novel, the legal system seeks definitive answers to such dilemmas. A person is either guilty or not guilty. Justice is either served or denied. An appeal is either upheld or overturned. Literature, on the other hand, embraces the morally grey areas, inviting the reader to explore the moral ambiguity behind human actions. In The Count of Monte Cristo, traditional legal roles become blurred as the Count assumes the position of defendant, judge, and jury in the pursuit of justice. This inversion of roles illustrates how literature compels readers to confront the limits of the legal system and consider what justice truly is.

Several novels illustrating themes of justice follow a similar thread. Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird each examine morally ambiguous situations, whether it be Jean Valjean stealing a piece of bread and being imprisoned for nineteen years, Rodion Raskolnikov murdering someone under the guise of moral superiority, or Tom Robinson being falsely accused of rape and pronounced guilty. These stories unfold in the shadows of the legal system, yet they do not hinge on courtroom outcomes. They explore justice not as a verdict, but as a question of character, morality, and meaning. There lies a unique power in literature that allows the author to present morally grey areas and depict justice beyond dichotomous legal decisions.

The law is often understood as rational, impartial, and neutral; Literature, however, is sometimes irrational, partial, and biased. Legal institutions are necessary for upholding the rigid moral fabric of society, but literature carves space to explore moral ambiguity and human behavior in a more intimate way that makes the journey feel more personal. Ultimately, law and literature are not diametrically opposed but rather complementary means to understanding justice better. To understand justice, the clarity of the law and the complexity of storytelling are both needed. Law provides structure and rules that govern society, while literature captures the ethical and emotional depth behind those rules and structure. Together, they offer a more comprehensive understanding of justice. 

One of the central questions in The Count of Monte Cristo centers around whether justice is best achieved by legal retribution or moral awakening. While the novel appears to lean towards the latter, tracing Dantès transformation from a man consumed with vengeance to one filled with magnanimity, the answer is not always simple. In Dantès’ final words, “wait and hope,” justice is framed as not a single legal outcome, but as a deeply human journey. It is less about a verdict and more about coming to understand the complexity of the human condition.