... having been breathed out

He was in love with himself and France joined in. It was a romance. Perhaps all romance is like that; not a contract between equal parties but an explosion of dreams and desires that can find no outlet in everyday life. Only a drama will do and while the fireworks last the sky is a different colour. He became an Emperor. He called the Pope from the Holy City to crown him but at the last second he took the crown in his own hands and placed it on his own head. He divorced the only person who understood him, the only person he ever really loved, because she couldn’t give him a child. That was the only part of the romance he couldn’t manage by himself.


He is repulsive and fascinating by turns.


What would you do if you were an Emperor? Would soldiers become numbers? Would battles become diagrams? Would intellectuals become a threat? Would you end your days on an island where the food is salty and the company bland?


He was the most powerful man in the world and he couldn’t beat Joséphine at billiards.


I’m telling you stories. Trust me.