An achingly beautiful fictional account of the rise and fall of the Emperor Napoleon
Preussler’s storytelling mastery and gift for atmosphere render this Bildungsroman-meets-Gothic horror both timeless and splendidly, creepily original.
This phantasmal, complex novel of ideas takes place in a “wild, precipitous landscape”
He tries to cram St. John of Nepomuk into a shaggy fur coat.
They were different from the Germans she knew in the Reich.
Perhaps language, especially written and read, acquaints time with space.
An advanced modern reader acts like a detective.
Myths always lie a little, to make them more impressive.
Of course I was named after Leonid Brezhnev!
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