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The Alps Books
Showing 1-11 of 11
L'Affaire (Paperback)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 2.96 — 957 ratings — published 2003
Left To Hide (Adele Sharp #3)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 4.17 — 1,348 ratings — published 2020
At the Edge of the Woods (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 3.64 — 636 ratings — published 2023
The Ancestor (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 3.34 — 5,229 ratings — published 2020
The Other Einstein (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 3.87 — 87,626 ratings — published 2016
The Ludwig Conspiracy (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 3.70 — 4,290 ratings — published 2011
The Magic Mountain (Kindle Edition)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 4.13 — 62,919 ratings — published 1924
The Paris Wife (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 3.82 — 306,092 ratings — published 2011
The Sherlockian (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 3.66 — 15,060 ratings — published 2010
Niccolò Rising (The House of Niccolò, #1)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 4.28 — 4,693 ratings — published 1986
The Solitaire Mystery (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as the-alps)
avg rating 4.19 — 27,533 ratings — published 1990
“I have been to the Alpine countries of Austria and Ardamia before, but never to this corner of the range, and while the journey to St. Liesl, which perches high above sea level, was not a comfortable one, it took my breath away. The path wound up a mountainside still dotted with the last of the summer flowers, snowbells and cheery buttercups. Mountains cluttered every horizon, many crowned in an eternal snow. Below us was the town of Leoburg with its railroad, its neat stone-and-timber buildings, its sharp and commanding steeple, but the higher we went, the more all this was dwarfed by the wildness surrounding it, the railroad a thin line of stitches connecting us to the world we knew. And then we rounded a bend in the path, and we could no longer see the town at all.
I understand now why the folklore of the Alps is so rich--- the many folds and crevices in the mountainsides could hide any number of faerie doors opening onto dozens of stories.”
― Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands
I understand now why the folklore of the Alps is so rich--- the many folds and crevices in the mountainsides could hide any number of faerie doors opening onto dozens of stories.”
― Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands
“A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon—a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity—and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.
I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon—I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris—I saw him at the head of the army of Italy—I saw him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tri-color in his hand—I saw him in Egypt in the shadows of the pyramids—I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo—at Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster—driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris—clutched like a wild beast—banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea.
I thought of the orphans and widows he had made—of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky—with my children upon my knees and their arms about me—I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as 'Napoleon the Great.”
― The Liberty of Man, Woman and Child
I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon—I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris—I saw him at the head of the army of Italy—I saw him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tri-color in his hand—I saw him in Egypt in the shadows of the pyramids—I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo—at Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster—driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris—clutched like a wild beast—banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea.
I thought of the orphans and widows he had made—of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky—with my children upon my knees and their arms about me—I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as 'Napoleon the Great.”
― The Liberty of Man, Woman and Child
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