Germania: In Wayward Pursuit of the Germans and Their History [NOOK Book]

Overview


A UNIQUE EXPLORATION OF GERMAN CULTURE, FROM SAUSAGE ADVERTISEMENTS TO WAGNER

Sitting on a bench at a communal table in a restaurant in Regensburg, his plate loaded with disturbing amounts of bratwurst and sauerkraut made golden by candlelight shining through a massive glass of beer, Simon Winder was happily swinging his legs when a couple from Rottweil politely but ...

See more details below
Germania: In Wayward Pursuit of the Germans and Their History

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook - First Edition)
$9.99
BN.com price

Overview


A UNIQUE EXPLORATION OF GERMAN CULTURE, FROM SAUSAGE ADVERTISEMENTS TO WAGNER

Sitting on a bench at a communal table in a restaurant in Regensburg, his plate loaded with disturbing amounts of bratwurst and sauerkraut made golden by candlelight shining through a massive glass of beer, Simon Winder was happily swinging his legs when a couple from Rottweil politely but awkwardly asked: “So: why are you here?”

This book is an attempt to answer that question. Why spend time wandering around a country that remains a sort of dead zone for many foreigners, surrounded as it is by a force field of historical, linguistic, climatic, and gastronomic barriers? Winder’s book is propelled by a wish to reclaim the brilliant, chaotic, endlessly varied German civilization that the Nazis buried and ruined, and that, since 1945, so many Germans have worked to rebuild.

Germania is a very funny book on serious topics—how we are misled by history, how we twist history, and how sometimes it is best to know no history at all. It is a book full of curiosities: odd food, castles, mad princes, fairy tales, and horse-mating videos. It is about the limits of language, the meaning of culture, and the pleasure of townscape.


Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Marc Fisher
Simon Winder has spent more than enough time in Germany to catch the bug, that virus that turns even innocent tourists into amateur anthropologists, desperate to figure out just how the Germans got that way…Winder has a severe case, but luckily, he's a smart, witty fellow with a knack for finding the threads that connect patches of the crazy quilt that is German history.
—The Washington Post
Kirkus Reviews
A cheerful, dryly unserious survey and travelogue through the landscape and psyche of Germany. British writer Winder (The Man Who Saved Britain: A Personal Journey into the Disturbing World of James Bond, 2006) slips as giddily into discussing the ravages of the Thirty Years' War as the awfulness of German cuisine, the pogroms that seized German towns in the wake of the Napoleonic wars as the family tree of the Hohenzollerns. The author works with a meandering, loose chronology, beginning with the fantasy of ancient Germania as "a land of forest and personal freedom" and ending after World War II, when the incomparable richness of German history and achievement was "replaced with messianic infantilism." Winder explains that first visiting Strasbourg cathedral as a young teen awakened his awareness of "an aesthetic sense," and that he has been fascinated by Germany as Britain's "weird twin" ever since. As a Brit, he has been inculcated in the horrors of German militarism, which since World War I essentially shuttered all intellectual and cultural curiosity about its golden prewar years, once "an intolerably poignant place" depicted in Thomas Mann's early novels, now a "sort of dead zone." The author makes a dogged, gracious attempt to re-engage with what is remarkable about Germany, or at least interesting and moving, even in its grotesqueness-often in the manner of W.G. Sebald, whom Winder evidently reveres. In his travels, Winder has galloped across the countryside in search of the German echt and on the way stopped at every notable castle, cathedral, walled town and bulky monument from Aachen to Wittenberg. The author's characterization of the Germans veers from insultingly cliched tocharmingly illuminative. In the final chapters, he offers an impressive discussion of the shattering effects of World War I, both on Germany and the world. A nimble and knowledgeable but long-winded cabinet of curiosities.
From the Publisher
“An engaging, often funny catalog of one man’s eccentric enthusiasm for a country that he has come to love—somewhat to his own surprise…Winder is an entertaining writer, and an erudite one.” —Ian Brunskill, The Wall Street Journal

“A delightfully personal and engaging book…Winder’s knowledge is as encyclopedic as his enthusiasm is childlike.” —Roger K. Miller, The Denver Post

“Winder digresses into wine, marzipan, wonder cabinets, American films, and his own inability to learn German or understand philosophy.…A weirdly witty chronicle.” —Barbara Fisher, The Boston Globe

“His rich and broadly chronological history of Germany and its peoples is minutely researched. Interspersed in the narrative, however, are the deliciously opinionated, often hilarious and occasionally vituperative reminiscences of the author’s many excursions to Germany and Austria. They make the book. The love-hate nature of his relationship with his subject brings out the best in his writing . . . It is the kind of knockabout humour that has British readers rolling while Germans smile politely but a little uncomprehendingly . . . A splendid offering.” —Hugh Mortimer, Financial Times

“Wonderful—very witty and highly entertaining, splendidly and amusingly opinionated, marvellously colourful in its descriptions of unusual places and little known people, and full of enjoyable insights into German history and culture.” —Ian Kershaw, author of Hitler: A Biography

“Winder is perhaps the first to have succeeded in presenting Germany as no less fun that France or Italy and the Germans as a nation of eccentrics very like our own . . . He excels in a style that he self-deprecatingly calls ‘anecdotal facetiousness’ but which manages to convey copious quantities of facts in the most enjoyable way possible.” —Evening Standard

“It’s plain that Winder’s mind is fizzing with interesting ideas. He can write beautifully, embodying a whole world in a phrase . . . He finds new angles on familiar subjects . . . His excitement is beguiling and infectious; he’s widely read, good-humoured and—a wonderful asset in writing this book—utterly lacking an axe to sharpen on the subject of the Second World War . . . There are many pleasures to be savoured in Germania . . . gems that make Winder’s clever, rambunctious work a book to treasure.” —Miranda Seymour, Literary Review

“This book is the chronicle of a passion. It is also an engrossing, informative and hilarious read. He has spun an enthralling weave of travelogue, anecdote and historical mock-epic. What is often most engaging about these encounters is the spectacle of Winder himself. It made me laugh so hard that I woke up my wife and had to give up reading the book in bed. If Bill Bryson had collaborated with W. G. Sebald to write a book about Germany, they might have wound up with something like this. Winder’s extravagant mixing of genres allows him to seek historical depth without sacrificing the pleasures of anecdote. There is a serious purpose behind all the playfulness.” —Christopher Clark, The Sunday Times (London)

“Simon Winder peppers his meaty tome with quirky digressions, anecdotes and memories, revealing intriguing insights about Germany, from its cuisine to its architecture, people and history.” —ABTA Magazine

“Travelogue and historical narrative are merged in a gloriously free-wheeling narrative of the entire sweep of German history . . . This book is clearly not intended to be the last word on German history. But for any readers wanting a learned, entertaining and lucid introduction to a notoriously complex subject, it should certainly be their first.” —Seven Magazine, The Sunday Telegraph

“This candid, cheerful and idiosyncratic approach to travelogue makes a refreshing change. Whether being stridently critical or puppyishly enthusiastic, Winder is a master of the well-turned phrase or the unexpected insight.” —The Times (London)

“Best to follow Winder on his rambles as you’d follow a favourite uncle who knows lots about lots of apparently random things . . . He is most engaging and sporadically wise . . . Winder’s mind is a very agreeable place to go rambling.” —The Scotsman

“Entertaining and informative... Delightful” —Philip Hensher, The Independent

“A beautifully written and insightful book . . . It can only be hoped that it will be read by many and that it will be recognised for what it is: a witty, thought-provoking account of Germany’s various histories, cultures and oddities.” —The Irish Times

Praise for The Man Who Saved Britain

“Simon Winder gives us a rollicking tour through Bondland, [and] expertly captures the knowing blend of nostalgia, sophistication and plain absurdity that made the Bond books (and later the movies) such a hit in the 1950s and ‘60s . . . Entertaining and very funny.” —Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times

“A book of eccentric brilliance that covers everything from Jamaica as lieu de mémoire to the sexual magnetism of General Nasser.” —Richard Vinen, The Times Literary Supplement

“Almost ridiculously enjoyable.” —Christopher Taylor, New Statesman

“[An] entertaining romp through the literary and cinematic heartland of James Bond country . . . [Winder] provides amusing diversions for the general reader and delights for the Bond enthusiast.” —Andrew Lycett, The Sunday Times (London)

“Winder has an easy journalistic tone, a surprisingly objective take on his own obsession and an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things Bond and Ian Fleming-related . . . Witty and intelligent.” —Francesca Segal, Financial Times

The Barnes & Noble Review

Simon Winder's first book, The Man Who Saved Britain, turned his self-amused passion for James Bond into kindling for a bonanza of cultural and political insights, shrewd asides, and good jokes. The imperial decline that 007's ultra-cool myth did so much to poultice, the arrogance and cruelties of empire itself, pop fanhood as a bastard form of patriotism vs. patriotism as the bloody-minded form of fanhood -- all of his thematic nuggets looked not only brainy but unusually beguiling when offset by bright quips, infectious prejudice about Sean Connery vs. Roger Moore, delight in Bond creator Ian Fleming's preposterous c.v., and a constant awareness that Winder's own brand of fetishism amounted to autobiography at one remove. If you can imagine a Ricky Gervais version of Greil Marcus's Americana-addled Mystery Train, you'll understand why I not only read The Man Who Saved Britain in one gulp but pressed it on friends.

Winder's unexpected follow up to The Man Who Saved Britain is the vastly more ambitious Germania: In Wayward Pursuit of the Germans and Their History, an extravagant bid to do the same idiosyncratic job on an entire country that he did on Bond. Once again, he's going public with a private fascination. Despite having no roots there and being unable to speak or even read the language -- "a tragic flaw," he cheerily concedes, the hyperbole acting to distract us from noticing that it's also a serious practical disadvantage -- he's been bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by Wagner's, Heinrich Heine's, and Frederick the Great's old turf ever since a disastrous but hilarious family vacation first brought him up against its glumbut peculiarly gemutlichkeit mysteries in his teens.

As if his self-imposed task isn't formidable enough, his interests aren't bounded by Germany's current frontiers or even those that first united an assortment of minor kingdoms resembling "an explosion in a jigsaw factory" on maps into a powerful nation-state in 1871. His "Germania" means the whole troublesome, influential but seldom politically rationalized cultural and ethnographic swath at Europe's center. Hence the considerable time we spend not only in Austria but in present-day bits of France, Poland, and so on.

You probably won't be surprised to hear that Winder has bitten off more than he can chew. But one reason the miscalculation isn't obvious right away is that few writers can prattle on this entertainingly with their mouths full. If he's essentially a tourist -- despite dozens of visits, he's never lived there -- he's a madly informed and indefatigable one, with hobbyhorses ranging from music and architecture to religious as well as political history (though the Reformation alone makes those two hard to disentangle). Tickled by a notion of Germany as "Britain's weird twin," he's as delighted to spot a 1940s board game called "Bomb England" among the playthings in an exhibit of "toys of yesteryear" as he is to notice the strangely parallel destinies of "Karl and Albrecht" -- as in Karl Marx and Queen Victoria's consort Prince Albert, born a year apart and two 19th-century Germans who, in different ways, made good in London.

He's also got enough show biz guile to keep his readers diverted with unlikely segues. Early on, he puts on his scholar's hat to provide a skillful analysis of Tacitus's original Germania -- written in the first century A.D., but rediscovered during the Renaissance to "disastrous" effect, since the Roman historian's largely imaginary descriptions of proto-German tribes of "pure blood" launched a primitivist myth their nationalist descendants seized on. Before we know it, Winder has moved on to relishing the same myth's contrapuntal reflection in Ridley Scott's Gladiator: "Setting aside too obsessive a sense of realism, Gladiator helpfully allows us to understand Russell Crowe's Roman general by having him speak English rather than Latin, while the poor Germans are doomed to gargle away crazily before their certain defeat." When he's on his game, his gift for phrasing -- not only "gargle away crazily," but his earlier description of the Danube's "sedately implacable" current -- could charm the helmet off a Valkyrie.

Though the device eventually turns oppressive, the ingenuity of the book's structure is to give us windows on the larger arc of German history -- and its culture's recurring patterns, too -- in strictly local form. We're led from Charlemagne's ninth-century basilica in Aachen to Hitler's 1923 Munich beer-hall putsch via Winder's enthusiasm for hopping a train to the provincial burg or forgotten castle whose attractions best evoke not only the period he's pondering but its refurbishing or repurposing in collective memory. Two nice examples in very different keys are Luther's hoked-up birthplace in Eisleben -- "one of those richly enjoyable fake heritage disasters that strew the German landscape," complete with crib and tape-recorded lullabye -- and the very unhokey-sounding Magdeburg Cenotaph, an Ernst Barlach-designed pacifist World War I memorial featuring "mournful, frightened or dead troops clinging to a cross." No wonder the Nazis had it dismantled before their downfall brought it back into view.

A helpless fan of small-town museums, bad civic paintings, and similar oddities, Winder can't stop sharing his finds with us. These include some real marvels, like the dingily preserved horse of Sweden's King Gustavus Adolphus on display in Ingolstadt almost 400 years after it was shot out from under him at the battle of Lutzen. Just as characteristically, Winder's evocation of the Thirty Years' War -- during which Gustavus's invasion of Germany saved the Protestant side from disaster -- appealingly blends historical knowledge and imaginative empathy for the traumatized lives people led in the war's "terrible theater of helplessness." He isn't all laughs and curios by any means.

At some point, though, this overstuffed book starts to collapse under the weight of too many conflicting agendas. Read any chapter of Germania at random, and you'll think Winder has written a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. But ploughing through its 454 pages from start to finish will leave you relieved it's one of a kind. His serious concerns and genuine ardor end up jarring more and more intrusively with his compulsion to remind us that he's just a lovable eccentric in the grip of an unlikely addiction. In this mode, he comes across like a hyperactive child who can't see why his birthday shouldn't continue for another day, only to go sulk in the margins when he's reminded that the next day is the anniversary of Kristallnacht.

We spend far too much time puttering around in the former domains of petty princelings just because their careers or legacies are so "daft" and "fun" -- two of the most overworked words in Winder's vocabulary, betraying more anxiety than he may realize about the project's attractiveness. The useful point he wants to make -- that numberless pockets of Germany, often in poignantly thwarted form, refute the prevailing cliches -- is undermined by too many what-a-good-time-I'm-having interjections, including the ineffably inept, "These places are like potato crisps in that there seems to be no upper limit to how many it is enjoyable to consume." That kind of thing might do for patter on a jovial Discovery Channel doc, but it's awfully grating in print.

His garrulity grows claustrophobic not least because the only live human being in Winder's cabinet-of-wonders "Germania" appears to be Winder. With a few trivial exceptions, he never interacts with any native -- and since most educated Europeans speak English, his inability to master foreign languages is no excuse. On top of that, our author's day job in publishing not only makes him an habitue of the Frankfurt Book Fair but gives him a raft of potential contacts. Presumably, it would have been a breeze for him to arrange all sorts of daft or fun chats with German historians, journalists, museum curators, and the like.

Instead, we might as well be in a Twilight Zone episode where everyone but the narrator has gone mute. Especially given Central Europe's history under literal autocrats, it's hard not to wince when Winder -- annoyed by the motley human clutter outside St. Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna -- fantasizes about "seeing troops in really beautiful uniforms . . . using canister shot to clear a path through the tour groups and farting breakdancers." Clearly, he wants this theme park to himself.

What he doesn't want is for its relatively recent nightmare aspect to bulk too large in our minds. Naturally, Winder can't omit Germany's 20th-century horrors outright. When mementoes of them crop up on his travels, he makes all the right rhetorical noises about the monstrosity of Hitler's reign. But his main attempt to deal with German anti-Semitism head-on -- awkwardly tucked into a chapter well predating Nazism's rise -- is a disaster, dotted with baffling observations on the order of "To say we deal with the Nazis too earnestly might sound frivolous, but I think it is true" and "Jews, after all, were used to being Jews." Worst of all are his reflections on seeing the relics of a destroyed synagogue: "I am staring at something I do not understand except in an arid, unengaged way and the people who might explain it to me are long gone." Maybe we should give him props for honesty. But considering how often and lustily he's thrown himself into imagining the mindset of everyone from Hanseatic League burghers to Saxon grenadiers, that "arid, unengaged" is a stunner.

He also ends Germania with Hitler's assumption of power in 1933, a cut-off point so confounding that even Winder's considerable powers of glibness have to strain to rationalize it. For one thing, the abridged timeline encourages an opinion of German history and culture whose reductiveness he's been at pains to refute: the pulp view that everything from Tacitus on was just a tendentious curtain-raiser, with the Third Reich as the inevitable climax. For another, it omits the compelling story of West if not East Germany's mostly admirable, impressively successful -- and until 1989, interestingly bifurcated -- attempt to make something else of itself in the 65 years since the Führer's death, not to mention Austria's rather more furtive shell game.

My not unsympathetic guess is that Winder was trapped by his own boisterous game plan. Since he's a decent human being, he plainly knows it won't do to hie himself off to Dachau, Buchenwald, or even Hitler's old "Wolf's Lair" HQ in East Prussia with mad-tourist cries of "Yoicks!," droll evaluations of the nearest hotel's lumpy cuisine, and daft, fun facts about whoever invented electrified barbed wire. But rather than forcing him to so revealingly wrap things up early, shouldn't that have led him to reconsider his method instead? We've been watching him juggle passionate interest and frothy capering from the start, but when he reaches the juncture where they're irreconciliable, he just collects his dropped balls and goes home.

If that sounds grumpy, I hope you'll understand my disappointment is genuine. Thanks not only to my admiration for Winder's previous book but a childhood connection to his subject that I can't do much about -- it wasn't my idea to be born there, but the U.S. State Department moved my parents around in mysterious ways -- I was looking forward to Germania perhaps more eagerly than most. If the effervescent gambits that worked so well in The Man Who Saved Britain end up backfiring on Winder here, maybe he should have remembered going in that James Bond is myth, not reality. Even though its own natives have ignored the distinction to nightmarish effect at times, Germany is another story.

--Tom Carson

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429945417
  • Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
  • Publication date: 3/16/2010
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 480
  • Sales rank: 85,101
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author


Simon Winder has spent far too much time in Germany, denying himself a lot of sunshine and fresh fruit just to write this book. He is the author of the highly praised The Man Who Saved Britain (FSG, 2006) and works in publishing in London.

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt



Chapter One
From the land of gloomy forests »
Roman Germans » An alligator far from home »
I’ll have some green sauce with that » The medieval car park
From the land of gloomy forests
There can be few better times to think about the myths of the ancient origins of Germany than when listening to the second act Prelude to Siegfried. This scarcely manageable piece of music creates in some five minutes a trackless, choked, gloomy forest, menace (specifically a sleeping dragon) and a sense of waiting – the many years during which dwarves and gods have been drumming their fingers waiting for the great (if borderline silly) events at last to unfold.
It is hard to avoid a sense of irritation mixed with relief that non-Germans have such a second-hand relationship with this music. There have been many great non-German enthusiasts for and interpreters of Wagner, but none have to take quite the same responsibility that Germans do for the drama’s roots and meaning. There is something about all the elements in the forest Prelude very specific to German culture. English forests can be driven across so quickly that it’s possible to miss them – and walking in them hardly counts as a form of exercise, with a playground, baked-potato salesman or nature table every ten feet or so. But in Germany it’s still possible to stand on high hills and see nothing but trees, albeit very well-cared-for trees, rolling towards the horizon – a tiny fragment of the ancient forest. The dragon, dwarves and gods also seem convincing, part of a toy box of creatures lurking in the mountains and forests and repainted by generations of linguists, folklorists and composers, at the heart of any number of festivals and children’s books.
The Germans have invested far more in their ancient past than the English, who have always had a more restricted curiosity about their origins. The two nations share much of the same primeval ice-sheet, giving its melting as a clear start date (southern Germany was clear of ice, making it annoyingly different even in the Pleistocene era), but then we go our separate ways. Undeniably much of the national story of England’s origins is embarrassing. As a Roman colony Britannia was a hardship post and a bit of a joke. There has always been a last-ditch suggestion that the Romans may have left us at least the odd noble-browed, classically educated gene, but sheer lack of surviving information about the province shows the disregard in which its owners held it. As an obsessive fascination with the ancient past swept over Europe in the nineteenth century, British superiority complexes were simply not nourished much by such sorry stuff. And once the Romans left, Britain became a free-for-all, with wave upon wave of pleasure-seeking North Germans, Danes and Norwegians using it as a sort of chopping-board until the final ignominy of the Norman Conquest. In all this melee the figures of Arthur and Alfred bob up and down – the former invented by French poets, the latter a figure seen through so many layers of subsequent marauders that it is unclear whether modern England has any real link with him at all.
The very public and mortifying nature of England as a resort for axe-wielding immigrants has made its deep, early history almost unavailable to inspiring narrative except as a swirling and idiotic run-up to Magna Carta and then fast-forward to Macaulay’s enjoyable onward and upward. For the Germans, however, the deep past has had a corrosive and disastrous effect. There can be few stronger arguments for the damage that can be done by paying too much attention to history than how Germany has understood and taught its ancient past, however aesthetically pleasurable it can be in operas.
All over Germany, partly entwined in the same obsessions as Wagner and partly in turn inspired by him, artists and writers tried to scrape away at the wholly unrecorded wastes of Central Europe to find some clues as to where they were from. The only real document, and perhaps one of the most unfortunate in European history, was Tacitus’ On the Origin and Situation of the Germans, the Germania, a single copy being found in a Hessian abbey and sent to Rome in 1455, where its implications began to sink in. This book (far more full and interesting than Tacitus’ Agricola, with its description of Britannia) has been tugged apart phrase by phrase. Lifetimes were devoted to extracting every last piece of ambiguous information, initially by Italian humanists, who did so much unhelpful work fabricating the myth of the Ur-Germans in the forest, before then passing on this disastrous gift north of the Alps. The book’s existence is amazing – a seemingly well-informed, very precise account of what the Roman empire knew about the Germans, written in ad 100 or so and surviving, unlike many of Tacitus’ other works, in spite of fire, weather and the whims of monastic librarians and copyists, over almost thirteen centuries.
The Roman empire had famously been unable to subdue the Germans, with its northern border stabilizing along the Rhine and Danube. Generations of German nationalists saw the Germania as the founding document of a German nation – one of ‘pure blood’ (in Tacitus’ catastrophic phrase). Tacitus contrasted the Germans’ specific virtues with their effete, immoral, toga-wearing neighbours’ failings. The Germans are rugged, swift to anger, oddly honourable, simple and good fighters – albeit fighters who get rubbed out when they are stupid enough to engage with the Romans head on. The text delicately balances its impressions so that the Germans are formidable enough to explain why they lie outside the Roman empire and yet savage enough for it not really to be worthwhile subduing them. The tone is reminiscent of British anthropologists describing Africans – until very recently – giving them the same puzzlingly narrow range of designated activities (fighting, feasting, procreating) followed by great stretches of torpor.
The difficulty with the Germania is that it is in many ways a fantasy, although the book’s absolute isolation means we will never know just how much so. ‘Germania’ implies a clear geographical and ethnic part of the world, but since the text’s discovery centuries have been spent, sometimes with terrible results, trying to live up to an entity that in practice wobbles and veers about almost mockingly. Clearly many of the virtues, including the ruinous ‘pure blood’, are only there to provide a contrast with what Tacitus saw as the corrupt, polysexual shambles of Rome and are not meant as serious comments on the people who back in ad 100 lived in a vaguely understood and hostile bit of Europe. We will never be able to disentangle when Tacitus is passing on information based on a serious source (he never went near the region himself) or when he is simply making a smart point for home consumption: were German men really devoted and faithful to their wives, or is Tacitus just needling his friends?
The Germania gives a powerful sense of the inhabitants of that region being very different from those within the empire, and that must have been true. Within the empire there was a settled, road-using, tax-paying, centrally controlled population: across the Rhine were mobile, roadless, freebooting, semi-anarchic individuals in loose bands, living in clearings in an immense, thinly populated forest. The Romans loathed this forest and it was the site of one of the most famous military reverses in their history – the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, in which twenty thousand legionaries and their commander were disposed of by Arminius (‘Hermann the German’), a figure who pops up heavily moustached and frowning with rectitude in various nineteenth-century sculptures and paintings.
This Roman hatred for Germania is gleefully reconstructed in Ridley Scott’s film Gladiator, which opens with the post-Tacitus anti-German campaigns of the emperor Marcus Aurelius. When, in the opening battle sequence, the camera pans over a spectral, freezing, fog-bound forest, seemingly shot through a special depressive charcoal filter, and the caption Germania pops up, we know that we remain in the shadow of the Roman empire two millennia on. This is not the German forest of chirping birds, pleasurable footpaths and mobs of hiking old folk, but the light-deprived nightmare imagined by citrus-fruit and deep-blue-sea Romans, or indeed Californians. The success of this film has enjoyably reopened ancient and disreputable discussions about the nature of ancient Germans. Here they are shown as fabulously grungy, militarily brave but strategically idiotic, yelling mucus-flecked imprecations at the fastidious and disgusted Roman troops. Setting aside too obsessive a sense of realism, Gladiator helpfully allows us to understand Russell Crowe’s Roman general by having him speak English rather than Latin, while the poor Germans are doomed to gargle away crazily before their certain defeat, having been too stupid to post proper guards behind their lines.
But did these ancient Germans really exist? Is there anything to link the people on, say, the Frankfurt metro system today to these shaggy folk? The mischief injected by the Germania is to imply that there is – even down to the title of the book. To Tacitus ‘Germania’ simply meant an arena of un-Roman people, split into numerous tribes, often at odds with one another and addicted to fighting and feasting. It is odd in many ways that modern Germans didn’t see Tacitus’ vision as endorsing permanent backwardness, disunity, inanition and chaotic drunkenness as badges of racial pride. Instead it was used to imply a coherence and value to a block of land which to its inner depths was German. It also endorsed the idea of Germany as a land of forest and personal freedom, albeit a personal freedom confusingly entangled in contradictory idylls about unquestioning obedience to local chieftains.
But in practice so many people have wandered back and forth across the area now called Germany during the thousand years between the Germania and the emergence of a sort of real medieval Germany that the tribes talked about by Tacitus cannot be called German in any but the vaguest sense. A famous example would be the marauding but astute Vandals who seem to have migrated from, very roughly, Silesia (now south-west Poland) all the way to Spain and then on to Africa around the end of the Roman empire, imprinting, through their violent antics, their name on several languages. Or the Burgundians, whose eventual territory between what became France and Germany marks one of the great fault lines in Europe’s geography, and who wandered through Central Europe, seemingly originating from an island off Sweden. We will never know how many of them there were, how much impact they had on the other tribes they carved up or intermarried with, indeed anything much at all. With the best research possible there are whole areas of Germany where the inhabitants and their tribal names remain more or less mysterious. Some of these people must have spoken a sort of proto-German, but only alongside numerous other tribes and any number of evil-smelling incomers carving their bearded ways through supposedly impenetrable forests: Huns from Central Asia, Goths from Sweden, swarms of Avars, Czechs and Sorbs coming into Central Europe from the East, each displacing further tribes, creating fresh societies, different religions, barely getting the hang of sedentary farming before being in turn pushed westward by yet further arrivals.
Conventionally these shifts of peoples over the thousand years or so from contact with the Romans to the final fixing of the Magyars in Hungary in about 900 is seen as a process with an end. But one of the oddities of German history is the degree to which no boundaries are ever really fixed, with each major national group and sub-group gaining power over its neighbour at different points and generating a variety of tragically overlapping myths as to who rightly rules over whom and in what area. The more these ancient tribes’ barely visible trajectories were pored over, the more fraudulent, absurd, but also murderous patterns could be observed. For nineteenth-century nationalists, tensions between Saxons and Wends or Poles and Prussians which were entirely to do with modern power and privilege were instead rooted in some murky, elemental past. Everyone loved these mead-crazed ancestors in elaborate helmets banging their fists on banqueting tables and swearing eternal vengeance of some dark kind or another. There is a marvellous scene in Theodor Fontane’s 1878 Prussian novel After the Storm, where in an obscurely traditional part of Brandenburg, two old friends, a pastor and a magistrate, spend a happy evening, clearly one of many, arguing over a tiny bronze model chariot from an excavation. Is this a richly characteristic piece of Germanic artwork, decorated with Odin’s ravens – or is it the very quintessence of the great Wendish Slavic culture, the plaything of an Obotritan prince in an otter-fur cap, made at a time when the Germanic tribes ‘lived under trees and dressed in animal skins’, wielding crude flints? The two men argue back and forth drawing on an absurd range of linguistic and metallurgic evidence, with the pastor making the devastating point that even his friend’s name, Vitzewitz, itself sounds awfully Slav. There is an obvious pleasure in seeing a great novelist at the height of German chauvinism making fun of this issue, but it also compresses into one short chapter all the problems of ancient Germandom. In practice Germany is a chaotic ethnic lost-property office, and the last place to be looking for ‘pure blood’. As dozens of tribes arrived, left, intermarried and exterminated one another, it became impossible to know who spoke German as a sort of birth-right and who just decided it would be sensible to learn it – and whether the birth-right German had switched from Frankish or Danish or indeed Obotritan a generation before.
What should be local history or a fusty private interest could become horrible as state policy. At its most comic there was Goebbels’ attempt to recreate the atmosphere of pagan Germany through the building of ‘Thing-theatres’, enormous outdoor arenas incorporating heroic oak trees, craggy outcrops and the usual medley of nonsense, where people would congregate in the old northern manner and watch pageants of pure Germandom. It is a small satisfaction but a real one to imagine those who had voted for the Nazis having to sit in the cold and rain watching people in costume declaiming neo-Norse rubbish. The ‘Thing-theatres’ were not a success and only a handful were built; they are now crumbled, disregarded or used for rock concerts. Infinitely worse was the neo-paganism of the SS, with its obsession with blood purity, runes, oaths, flames and temples. If the Third Reich had survived then we would not now be in a position to say just how contemptible this deep German engagement with the ancient past really was.
Roman Germans
These myths of ‘ancient Germany’ were confused in their own right, but they also had to share space with another equally baffling legacy: that such absolutely ‘core’ bits of the German world as Austria and the western Rhineland were fully integrated into the Roman empire, lying well behind the fighting lines so lovingly delineated in Gladiator. Towns such as Koblenz, Vienna, Worms and Augsburg (Augustus’s town) all started out as forts built by Augustus or Tiberius in the first century ad while Regensburg, Baden-Baden, Heidelberg, Cologne, and many others were all either founded or taken over by the Romans somewhat later. This non-shaggy, non-foresty sort of Germany – all roads, bridges, jugs of olive oil and civic centres – offered an entirely different model and affected far too many essential German towns to be viewed as somehow fraudulent or non-German. It was an inheritance which gave Germans a direct access to Latin culture quite at odds with the programme outlined by Tacitus, even if it was an access no less silly than that channelling their forest ancestors.
Excerpted from Germania by .
Copyright © 2010 by Simon Winder.
Published in 2010 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Maps xii

Introduction 1

'Bound with chains of flowers'

A note on Germany and German

Chapter 1 17

From the land of gloomy forests

Roman Germans

An alligator far from home

I'll have some green sauce with that

The medieval car park

Chapter 2 43

Ancient palaces

Charles the Great

Pious, Bald or Fat

A very small town

Spreading the Word

In search of a bit of sunshine

Thrust to the east

Chapter 3 73

Walled towns

Other superiority complexes

A brief note on political structures

German tribes

Famine and plague

Where a million diamonds shine

Chapter 4 97

The tideless sea

The curse of Burgundy

Happy families

Rampant folk costume

Imperial circles

Habsburgs

Chapter 5 127

Spires, turrets and towers

A birthplace and a death-house

The devil's bagpipes

The ruler of the world

The New Jerusalem

An unhappy wine merchant

Chapter 6 155

The Golden City of the Faithful

The land where lemon blossom grows

Black armour

The King of Sweden's horse

A Surprise visit from an asteroid

Chapter 7 183

Hourglasses and bird-eating spiders

'Music to Escort the Dead from this Life'

In the time of powdered wigs

Damascened yataghans

'Burn the Palatinate!'

Catholicism goes for broke

Chapter 8 213

The descendants of Cyrus the Great

Drinking chocolate with ostriches

More competitive tomb-building

Chromatic fantasia and fugue

The Strong and the Fat

Chapter 9 241

Little Sophie Zerbst

Parks and follies

In the footsteps of Goethe

A glass pyramid filled with robin eggs

A surprise appearance by a sea cow

German victimhood

Good-value chicken

Chapter 10 269

Marches militaires

Karl and Albrecht

Girls in turrets

Heroic acorns

Victory columns

Chapter 11 299

The grandeur and misery of nationalism

Snow-shake particularism

A surprise trip to Mexico

Chapter 12 321

Lambs and ladybirds

Jigsaw country

Hunting masters

Ruritania, Syldavia and their friends

An absence

Chapter 13 347

Beside the seaside

Texan Wends

Pidgin German

Thomas and Ernie

Podsnap in Berlin

Varieties of militarism

Chapter 14 379

Failure

The British-German divorce

Disaster

Defeat and revolution

Remembering the dead

Some royal aftershocks

Chapter 15 411

An unattractive lake

Putsches and suspenders

'5, 4, 3, 2, 1…'

The death of science

Terminal throes

Ending

Conclusion 435

In the hills

Mendel's statue

Death by oompah

Bibliography 443

Illustrations 451

Acknowledgements 453

Index 455

Read More Show Less

First Chapter

Germania

In Wayward Pursuit of the Germans and Their History
By Simon Winder

Picador

Copyright © 2011 Simon Winder
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780312680688

Chapter One
From the land of gloomy forests
There can be few better times to think about the myths of the ancient origins of Germany than when listening to the second act Prelude to Siegfried. This scarcely manageable piece of music creates in some five minutes a trackless, choked, gloomy forest, menace (specifically a sleeping dragon) and a sense of waiting – the many years during which dwarves and gods have been drumming their fingers waiting for the great (if borderline silly) events at last to unfold.
It is hard to avoid a sense of irritation mixed with relief that non-Germans have such a second-hand relationship with this music. There have been many great non-German enthusiasts for and interpreters of Wagner, but none have to take quite the same responsibility that Germans do for the drama’s roots and meaning. There is something about all the elements in the forest Prelude very specific to German culture. English forests can be driven across so quickly that it’s possible to miss them – and walking in them hardly counts as a form of exercise, with a playground, baked-potato salesman or nature table every ten feet or so. But in Germany it’s still possible to stand on high hills and see nothing but trees, albeit very well-cared-for trees, rolling towards the horizon – a tiny fragment of the ancient forest. The dragon, dwarves and gods also seem convincing, part of a toy box of creatures lurking in the mountains and forests and repainted by generations of linguists, folklorists and composers, at the heart of any number of festivals and children’s books.
The Germans have invested far more in their ancient past than the English, who have always had a more restricted curiosity about their origins. The two nations share much of the same primeval ice-sheet, giving its melting as a clear start date (southern Germany was clear of ice, making it annoyingly different even in the Pleistocene era), but then we go our separate ways. Undeniably much of the national story of England’s origins is embarrassing. As a Roman colony Britannia was a hardship post and a bit of a joke. There has always been a last-ditch suggestion that the Romans may have left us at least the odd noble-browed, classically educated gene, but sheer lack of surviving information about the province shows the disregard in which its owners held it. As an obsessive fascination with the ancient past swept over Europe in the nineteenth century, British superiority complexes were simply not nourished much by such sorry stuff. And once the Romans left, Britain became a free-for-all, with wave upon wave of pleasure-seeking North Germans, Danes and Norwegians using it as a sort of chopping-board until the final ignominy of the Norman Conquest. In all this melee the figures of Arthur and Alfred bob up and down – the former invented by French poets, the latter a figure seen through so many layers of subsequent marauders that it is unclear whether modern England has any real link with him at all.
The very public and mortifying nature of England as a resort for axe-wielding immigrants has made its deep, early history almost unavailable to inspiring narrative except as a swirling and idiotic run-up to Magna Carta and then fast-forward to Macaulay’s enjoyable onward and upward. For the Germans, however, the deep past has had a corrosive and disastrous effect. There can be few stronger arguments for the damage that can be done by paying too much attention to history than how Germany has understood and taught its ancient past, however aesthetically pleasurable it can be in operas.
All over Germany, partly entwined in the same obsessions as Wagner and partly in turn inspired by him, artists and writers tried to scrape away at the wholly unrecorded wastes of Central Europe to find some clues as to where they were from. The only real document, and perhaps one of the most unfortunate in European history, was Tacitus’ On the Origin and Situation of the Germans, the Germania, a single copy being found in a Hessian abbey and sent to Rome in 1455, where its implications began to sink in. This book (far more full and interesting than Tacitus’ Agricola, with its description of Britannia) has been tugged apart phrase by phrase. Lifetimes were devoted to extracting every last piece of ambiguous information, initially by Italian humanists, who did so much unhelpful work fabricating the myth of the Ur-Germans in the forest, before then passing on this disastrous gift north of the Alps. The book’s existence is amazing – a seemingly well-informed, very precise account of what the Roman empire knew about the Germans, written in ad 100 or so and surviving, unlike many of Tacitus’ other works, in spite of fire, weather and the whims of monastic librarians and copyists, over almost thirteen centuries.
The Roman empire had famously been unable to subdue the Germans, with its northern border stabilizing along the Rhine and Danube. Generations of German nationalists saw the Germania as the founding document of a German nation – one of ‘pure blood’ (in Tacitus’ catastrophic phrase). Tacitus contrasted the Germans’ specific virtues with their effete, immoral, toga-wearing neighbours’ failings. The Germans are rugged, swift to anger, oddly honourable, simple and good fighters – albeit fighters who get rubbed out when they are stupid enough to engage with the Romans head on. The text delicately balances its impressions so that the Germans are formidable enough to explain why they lie outside the Roman empire and yet savage enough for it not really to be worthwhile subduing them. The tone is reminiscent of British anthropologists describing Africans – until very recently – giving them the same puzzlingly narrow range of designated activities (fighting, feasting, procreating) followed by great stretches of torpor.
The difficulty with the Germania is that it is in many ways a fantasy, although the book’s absolute isolation means we will never know just how much so. ‘Germania’ implies a clear geographical and ethnic part of the world, but since the text’s discovery centuries have been spent, sometimes with terrible results, trying to live up to an entity that in practice wobbles and veers about almost mockingly. Clearly many of the virtues, including the ruinous ‘pure blood’, are only there to provide a contrast with what Tacitus saw as the corrupt, polysexual shambles of Rome and are not meant as serious comments on the people who back in ad 100 lived in a vaguely understood and hostile bit of Europe. We will never be able to disentangle when Tacitus is passing on information based on a serious source (he never went near the region himself) or when he is simply making a smart point for home consumption: were German men really devoted and faithful to their wives, or is Tacitus just needling his friends?
The Germania gives a powerful sense of the inhabitants of that region being very different from those within the empire, and that must have been true. Within the empire there was a settled, road-using, tax-paying, centrally controlled population: across the Rhine were mobile, roadless, freebooting, semi-anarchic individuals in loose bands, living in clearings in an immense, thinly populated forest. The Romans loathed this forest and it was the site of one of the most famous military reverses in their history – the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, in which twenty thousand legionaries and their commander were disposed of by Arminius (‘Hermann the German’), a figure who pops up heavily moustached and frowning with rectitude in various nineteenth-century sculptures and paintings.
This Roman hatred for Germania is gleefully reconstructed in Ridley Scott’s film Gladiator, which opens with the post-Tacitus anti-German campaigns of the emperor Marcus Aurelius. When, in the opening battle sequence, the camera pans over a spectral, freezing, fog-bound forest, seemingly shot through a special depressive charcoal filter, and the caption Germania pops up, we know that we remain in the shadow of the Roman empire two millennia on. This is not the German forest of chirping birds, pleasurable footpaths and mobs of hiking old folk, but the light-deprived nightmare imagined by citrus-fruit and deep-blue-sea Romans, or indeed Californians. The success of this film has enjoyably reopened ancient and disreputable discussions about the nature of ancient Germans. Here they are shown as fabulously grungy, militarily brave but strategically idiotic, yelling mucus-flecked imprecations at the fastidious and disgusted Roman troops. Setting aside too obsessive a sense of realism, Gladiator helpfully allows us to understand Russell Crowe’s Roman general by having him speak English rather than Latin, while the poor Germans are doomed to gargle away crazily before their certain defeat, having been too stupid to post proper guards behind their lines.
But did these ancient Germans really exist? Is there anything to link the people on, say, the Frankfurt metro system today to these shaggy folk? The mischief injected by the Germania is to imply that there is – even down to the title of the book. To Tacitus ‘Germania’ simply meant an arena of un-Roman people, split into numerous tribes, often at odds with one another and addicted to fighting and feasting. It is odd in many ways that modern Germans didn’t see Tacitus’ vision as endorsing permanent backwardness, disunity, inanition and chaotic drunkenness as badges of racial pride. Instead it was used to imply a coherence and value to a block of land which to its inner depths was German. It also endorsed the idea of Germany as a land of forest and personal freedom, albeit a personal freedom confusingly entangled in contradictory idylls about unquestioning obedience to local chieftains.
But in practice so many people have wandered back and forth across the area now called Germany during the thousand years between the Germania and the emergence of a sort of real medieval Germany that the tribes talked about by Tacitus cannot be called German in any but the vaguest sense. A famous example would be the marauding but astute Vandals who seem to have migrated from, very roughly, Silesia (now south-west Poland) all the way to Spain and then on to Africa around the end of the Roman empire, imprinting, through their violent antics, their name on several languages. Or the Burgundians, whose eventual territory between what became France and Germany marks one of the great fault lines in Europe’s geography, and who wandered through Central Europe, seemingly originating from an island off Sweden. We will never know how many of them there were, how much impact they had on the other tribes they carved up or intermarried with, indeed anything much at all. With the best research possible there are whole areas of Germany where the inhabitants and their tribal names remain more or less mysterious. Some of these people must have spoken a sort of proto-German, but only alongside numerous other tribes and any number of evil-smelling incomers carving their bearded ways through supposedly impenetrable forests: Huns from Central Asia, Goths from Sweden, swarms of Avars, Czechs and Sorbs coming into Central Europe from the East, each displacing further tribes, creating fresh societies, different religions, barely getting the hang of sedentary farming before being in turn pushed westward by yet further arrivals.
Conventionally these shifts of peoples over the thousand years or so from contact with the Romans to the final fixing of the Magyars in Hungary in about 900 is seen as a process with an end. But one of the oddities of German history is the degree to which no boundaries are ever really fixed, with each major national group and sub-group gaining power over its neighbour at different points and generating a variety of tragically overlapping myths as to who rightly rules over whom and in what area. The more these ancient tribes’ barely visible trajectories were pored over, the more fraudulent, absurd, but also murderous patterns could be observed. For nineteenth-century nationalists, tensions between Saxons and Wends or Poles and Prussians which were entirely to do with modern power and privilege were instead rooted in some murky, elemental past. Everyone loved these mead-crazed ancestors in elaborate helmets banging their fists on banqueting tables and swearing eternal vengeance of some dark kind or another. There is a marvellous scene in Theodor Fontane’s 1878 Prussian novel After the Storm, where in an obscurely traditional part of Brandenburg, two old friends, a pastor and a magistrate, spend a happy evening, clearly one of many, arguing over a tiny bronze model chariot from an excavation. Is this a richly characteristic piece of Germanic artwork, decorated with Odin’s ravens – or is it the very quintessence of the great Wendish Slavic culture, the plaything of an Obotritan prince in an otter-fur cap, made at a time when the Germanic tribes ‘lived under trees and dressed in animal skins’, wielding crude flints? The two men argue back and forth drawing on an absurd range of linguistic and metallurgic evidence, with the pastor making the devastating point that even his friend’s name, Vitzewitz, itself sounds awfully Slav. There is an obvious pleasure in seeing a great novelist at the height of German chauvinism making fun of this issue, but it also compresses into one short chapter all the problems of ancient Germandom. In practice Germany is a chaotic ethnic lost-property office, and the last place to be looking for ‘pure blood’. As dozens of tribes arrived, left, intermarried and exterminated one another, it became impossible to know who spoke German as a sort of birth-right and who just decided it would be sensible to learn it – and whether the birth-right German had switched from Frankish or Danish or indeed Obotritan a generation before.
What should be local history or a fusty private interest could become horrible as state policy. At its most comic there was Goebbels’ attempt to recreate the atmosphere of pagan Germany through the building of ‘Thing-theatres’, enormous outdoor arenas incorporating heroic oak trees, craggy outcrops and the usual medley of nonsense, where people would congregate in the old northern manner and watch pageants of pure Germandom. It is a small satisfaction but a real one to imagine those who had voted for the Nazis having to sit in the cold and rain watching people in costume declaiming neo-Norse rubbish. The ‘Thing-theatres’ were not a success and only a handful were built; they are now crumbled, disregarded or used for rock concerts. Infinitely worse was the neo-paganism of the SS, with its obsession with blood purity, runes, oaths, flames and temples. If the Third Reich had survived then we would not now be in a position to say just how contemptible this deep German engagement with the ancient past really was. 
Excerpted from Germania by Simon Winder
Copyright © 2010 by Simon Winder.
Published in 2010 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.


Continues...

Excerpted from Germania by Simon Winder Copyright © 2011 by Simon Winder. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 8 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(5)

4 Star

(2)

3 Star

(1)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 8 Customer Reviews
  • Posted April 25, 2014

    Captivating Account

    I bought and read Germania after having bought and read Danubia, the author's succeeding volume, after having read a positive review. Both are charming, idiosyncratic ventures into the complex histories of the German states, beginning with the Roman settlement of the Rhineland and the wanderings of Germanic tribes outside the empire, and of the Habsburg lands. There is, of course, some overlap between the volumes, as the Habsburgs became the hereditary emperors of the Holy Roman Empire. The books are amusing and make reading complex history a pleasure. I recommend both books without reservation.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 30, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 21, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted April 25, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 28, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted May 12, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 19, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 10, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 8 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)