Why Do Fans Admire Prince Dakkar In Classic Novels?

There's something magnetic about Prince Dakkar that never ages for me — he sits at the crossroads of genius, grief, and rebellion in a way that reads like a myth rewritten for the industrial age. When I first met him in 'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea', I was struck less by his actions and more by the layers: a dispossessed royal turned scientific mastermind, a man who traded thrones for the endless ocean. That combination of brainy invention and quiet fury makes him easy to admire; he's the sort of figure who feels both larger-than-life and heartbreakingly human, and that tension keeps me coming back to his scenes years later.

As someone who flips between being excitable about gadgets and sentimental about tragic backstories, I love how Prince Dakkar embodies both. The Nautilus isn't just a submarine — it's his cathedral, his workshop, his refuge. You can almost hear the gears turning when Verne describes its rooms, the piano in the saloon, the libraries stacked with banned volumes. Fans admire that craftsmanship: he builds a private cosmos where knowledge and aesthetics coexist. At the same time, his choices — the deliberate exile, the attacks he orchestrates against imperial ships — make him morally complicated. He's not a clean-cut hero; he's a person shaped by colonial violence and personal loss, and that moral ambiguity gives readers something to wrestle with. I’ve seen heated debates about whether his vengeance is justified, which is exactly the point. The best characters leave you unsettled and thoughtful, and Dakkar does that brilliantly in both 'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea' and 'The Mysterious Island'.

There’s also an emotional honesty to him that I respond to. He’s cultured — he plays music, quotes poetry, savors the ocean’s mysteries — but he’s also deeply lonely. I used to read his monologues late at night on the bus, half-smiling at the parts where he shows fierce protectiveness toward his crew and, a page later, an almost unbearable sadness when he speaks of his homeland. That duality — tender loyalty and grim resolve — is addictive. Fans admire how he's unflinching in pursuit of autonomy: rejecting oppressive empires, designing a world where he calls the shots, refusing to bow to the powers that wronged him. In modern terms, he can feel like an early avatar of anti-colonial resistance and a proto-tech visionary, which explains why he keeps popping up in adaptations, fan art, and even cosplay circles.

Finally, there's the allure of mystery. Verne never hands us a tidy moral verdict on Prince Dakkar; instead he gives us evocative glimpses, leaving room for readers to project hopes, fears, and ideals onto him. For me that makes Dakkar less a finished portrait and more a mirror. I admire him for his intellect and defiance, for his capacity to build beauty out of exile, and even for the ways his flaws make him human. Whenever I close those pages I’m left with a small ache and a lot of questions — which, honestly, is the best kind of literary company to keep.