Hugo’s Father Character Analysis

“Ghosts. . .” the old man muttered to himself. “I knew they would find me here eventually.”

And so Hugo began working all day in the dark on clocks. He had often imagined that his own head was filled with cogs and gears like a machine, and he felt a connection with whatever machinery he touched. He loved learning how the clocks in the station worked, and there as a kind of satisfaction in knowing how to climb through the walls and secretly repair the clocks without anyone seeing him.

Dogs barked in the distance, and the rumblings of the street cleaners pierced the quiet of the night. Where was Hugo supposed to go? What was he supposed to do? He had no one. Even the automaton was dead.

Hugo touched the ashes and then let them fall to the floor with the handkerchief. He staggered backwards. All of his plans, all of his dreams, disappeared in that scattered pile of ash.

Suddenly, Hugo felt stupid for thinking he could fix it and especially for imagining there would be a letter from his father waiting for him.

All his work had been for nothing.

Hugo felt broken himself.

“He bent down on one knee and whispered to me, ‘If you’ve ever wondered where your dreams come from when you go to sleep at night, just look around. This is where they are made.’”

But now I have built a new automaton [. . .]. When you wind it up, it can do something I’m sure no other automaton in the world can do. It can tell you the incredible story of Georges Méliès, his wife, their goddaughter, and a beloved clock maker whose son grew up to be a magician.

“Ghosts. . .” the old man muttered to himself. “I knew they would find me here eventually.”

And so Hugo began working all day in the dark on clocks. He had often imagined that his own head was filled with cogs and gears like a machine, and he felt a connection with whatever machinery he touched. He loved learning how the clocks in the station worked, and there as a kind of satisfaction in knowing how to climb through the walls and secretly repair the clocks without anyone seeing him.

Dogs barked in the distance, and the rumblings of the street cleaners pierced the quiet of the night. Where was Hugo supposed to go? What was he supposed to do? He had no one. Even the automaton was dead.

Hugo touched the ashes and then let them fall to the floor with the handkerchief. He staggered backwards. All of his plans, all of his dreams, disappeared in that scattered pile of ash.

Suddenly, Hugo felt stupid for thinking he could fix it and especially for imagining there would be a letter from his father waiting for him.

All his work had been for nothing.

Hugo felt broken himself.

“He bent down on one knee and whispered to me, ‘If you’ve ever wondered where your dreams come from when you go to sleep at night, just look around. This is where they are made.’”

But now I have built a new automaton [. . .]. When you wind it up, it can do something I’m sure no other automaton in the world can do. It can tell you the incredible story of Georges Méliès, his wife, their goddaughter, and a beloved clock maker whose son grew up to be a magician.