While I was reading this, I had a constant love/hate relationship with it. I loved it when stuff happened. Listening to the characters speak, experiencing the drama, anything that moved the story along. But I grew weary of the constant descriptions about absolutely everything. There's a whole chunk dedicated to geography and architecture of Paris. Did I need this? Probably not. 
 But the story itself is beautifully tragic. I don't think anyone is truly happy in this book, and their circumstances make it even worse. Claude Frollo, the priest, is a victim to his own lustful thoughts. La Esmeralda, the gypsy girl, is consistently scorned upon for her lifestyle. And of course Quasimodo, the hideous hunchback. There are a whole slew of characters and all their lives end up intertwined, all due to the beautiful gypsy girl. 
 Every man thinks he's love with her, and she's in love with the one who refuses to acknowledge her. But her admirers are only focused on her beauty. She has so little depth herself, doing little more than crying out for her Phoebus. All I can recall of her is that she's beautiful and loves Phoebus. I don't even know how the latter developed. 
 But the great part about tragedies are their endings. You know there won't be a happy ending here, but the extent of its unhappiness surprised me. Despite my constant trudging through the text and description, and constant annoyance with its characters, I was wholly satisfied and heartbroken over its ending. 
 A classic indeed.