"Death may beget life, but oppression can beget nothing other than itself." 
 Slow to start, but intricately woven and stunning in its conclusion. 
 So far my favorite work by Dickens--on par with my love for A Christmas Carol (although they are hardly comparable works, aside from having the same author.) I would assert their similar appeal--at least to this reader--lies in their under-girding of moral inquisition and enduring value. While the story really takes its time picking up any steam, Dickens seems to pull the narrative together a lot faster and with more impact than he did in works like Oliver Twist or Great Expectations. (It might also be the difference between a social protest novel and a historical novel attempting to give human conveyance to the documented insanity of a rebellion gone awry.) 
 The subject matter is fascinating on many levels--historical, sociological, psychological, and interpersonal. In a broad sense, it is a chilling observation on how human nature tends to swing like a pendulum--over-correcting as it goes from one awful extreme to another. 
 Set in both London and Paris prior to and then in the midst of the French Revolution, it follows the primary thread of a French doctor named Manette as he is released from a lengthy, unjust prison sentence and reunited with Lucie, the daughter he was never able to raise. The good doctor's memory is spotty and his psyche fragile--which ultimately conceals a good deal of the plot points that eventually unfold after five years in England, when his angelic daughter is sought after by two very different men--Charles Darnay, a conscience-ladden French emigrant, and Sydney Carton, a boozing British lawyer. The two happen to share both a similar physical appearance and a deep, abiding love for Lucie. And even when she chooses Darnay over Carton, they all remain close--Carton resigned to being a steadfast come-and-go family friend. 
 Carton's loyalty is then tested when Darnay is detained in France with his neck literally at stake. After all, Darnay's execution would then leave Lucie available... 
 The Revolution is a character unto itself, providing the ominous backdrop for this complexly nuanced story. Dickens makes you feel the plight of the French commoners under the horrendous abuses of those with noble blood. Then, as the power structure shifts, the downtrodden become the tyrants. And under the long fall of the guillotine we see the unquenchable thirst for blood and vengeance by the once oppressed peasantry. Men, women, children... even those only vaguely related to nobility who never enjoyed any of the benefits. The revolutionaries sought to mercilessly purge them all from France. It was the perfect setting in which to extend and viciously settle old grudges. And that is exactly what forms the backbone of the conflict in A Tale Of Two Cities. 
 Revolutionary figurehead, Madame Defarge, has a literal ax to grind (or perhaps guillotine?)--not with Charles Darnay himself, but with the man's vile-yet-dead father and his estranged uncle. (Darnay himself so despised his father and uncle's lasciviousness and brutality, he voluntarily denounced his family name and any inheritance he may have been entitled to--leaving instead to start his life over in England.) 
 "Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop," returned madame; "but don't tell me." 
 Madame Defarge may be the most singularly terrifying villainess I have ever encountered in literature. In part because the loss and horror she went through as a child at the hands of a "nobleman" makes her sympathetic to start out. But she takes the cry for justice and twists it into a vicious thing that rivals and perhaps exceeds the evilness of what was done to her family. For to her, it's not enough to see dead and financially redistributed the men who destroyed her family. She desires the slaughter of all of their descendants as well, no matter how unconnected to the original crime--no matter how young and innocent the descendant. (If revenge is a dish best served cold, Defarge is cooking with liquid nitrogen.) 
 It may be hard to believe, given this is such a well-known classic, but I honestly didn't see the end coming. It built up to last chapter with such an overwhelming magnificence and redemptive majesty, and then culminated with proof of pure and unselfish love... from an alcoholic melancholic anti-hero most wouldn't have thought to expect anything from. 
 Confession: I cried. Boo-hoo, cried. 
 I didn't realize how invested I was in the story until that surprising point. (I should preface this by saying it is rare for me to cry over a book, aside from the occasional non-fiction biography or memoir, when the harshness of the reality expressed tends to get to me.) This marks the first classic to make me cry. Combine that with the abundance of lyrical quotes and haunting impressions that lingered for weeks, and it deserves every star I'm allowed to give it. 
 Bravo, Mr. Dickens. 
 Side Note: 
 For a more upbeat and faster-paced classic read involving the French Revolution, I strongly recommend THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL. 
 Favorite Quotes: 
 *"Perhaps second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on." 
 *"And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire." 
 *"Think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you." 
 *"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known." 
 *"Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see triumph."