The greatest strength of The Glory of the Empire lies in Jean d'Ormesson's general observations, and its weakness lies in its specifics.

History is only useful if we attempt to learn from it. Memorizing names, places, and dates does nothing to improve anybody. We have to look at why things happened the way they did, how these things affect the present day, and how we can avoid making the same mistakes our predecessors made.

In this light, the idea of writing a fake history book, a text based entirely on the rise and fall of a completely fabricated civilization, has a whole lot of potential. If d'Ormesson is to present a realistic fake empire, he needs to have at least some hypothesis to test against history's big questions. And in general, he succeeds in at the very least showing us he's thinking about those questions.

There is something dispiriting about the march of history. That web which never alters despite an infinite range of motifs and variations: the same struggle for power under ever-different masks; the vain triumphs, the declines and falls; the ever-recurring myths; the straining toward a future that, though it always eludes the grasp, never ceases to exert its pressure and make its demands; the turning wheel which changes yet does not change; the hopes always disappointed, the victories foredoomed to failure - whether the picture they paint of man expresses his greatness or his weakness, we shall never know. Both, probably - and both at the same time. Nothing is more futile than history, and yet history is man himself. Nothing is more accidental, nothing more necessary. Everything could probably have been otherwise. But everything is as it is, and forever.

I imagine that's a bit sobering for historians, but I like it.

Writing a history book that doesn't need to be true allows d'Ormesson to editorialize when he wants, and that's to the benefit of this novel. However, when you're writing a novel, something is always required that isn't always crucial to writing true history: it's got to be compelling.

It's nice when a historian is a good writer, but if you're covering the history of Etruscan coins or something, I'm not going to complain if things get a little dry. But if you get to make the whole thing up, it's on you to deliver something engaging. In this regard, d'Ormesson is far more hit-and-miss.

He's got some great passages.

Death was all around him. He was like an island lashed at on every side by the waves. Death was attacking, the island still stood out for a few moments above the seething breakers, then it was overwhelmed by them and disappeared forever. He was the emperor of nothingness. These sumptuous colors and shapes, all this magnificence, the hymns of the priests, the swords and lances, the plumed helmets, the palaces around the square, the standards stamped with the Tiger and the ensigns surmounted by the Eagle, the thirst for power and the thirst for gold, even the beauty of the gardens and the sky, even the happiness he felt within him on spring mornings, all the impatience of youth, the friendship of men, ambition, anguish, all, including the pomp and circumstance of history, was nothing but illusion, nothing but the mask covering gulfs that held only silence.

But most of the book isn't like this.

Throughout The Glory of the Empire, d'Ormesson references dozens of real historical figures and places and connects them to his fictional empire. I also sense that part of the appeal of the book is supposed to come from its imitation of and comical winking towards the stylings of famous 19th and 20th century historians. Basically, you're far more likely to enjoy the book if you're a student of history. I was, for a while, and I recognized most of the people and places involved, but that only makes me more sure that this is much more of an impressive achievement than a good book. It's a book I appreciate rather than enjoy, which is OK. I envision this being great for a classroom, but not really for a couch at home.

I didn't have any other opportunity to share my favorite line from the book, so here it is, apropos of nothing.

"The only way to have clean hands is to not have hands. But we have hands, Philocrates."

( )

A patchwork of history: no doubt you'll recognise derivation from the histories you know, as I did. A pastiche, a large part of whose charm is the witty insertion of this imagined history into real-world reception. I didn't want to put the book down and look up Proust when he pretends In Search of Lost Time refers to an event of this history at a famous moment in Proust's novel, but I'm still curious to sort that out. There is an endless parade of names who refer, well-known and lesser-known -- a play by Victor Hugo, an invented line of Walt Whitman, and of course Edward Gibbon wrote a book on the empire. It's fun. The history itself often manages to be gripping, although unfortunately the main king didn't come alive for me like other personalities. At appropriate times there is a lyricism which the translation captures, and is quite lovely. The translation seems a feat achieved in itself, and imitates John Dryden's translation where the French original imitates Corneille. There are probably too many love stories involved for a history, although arguably not, and most of them were good ones anyway.

It reflects on empire -- overtly, more in the way of world empire, premodern ideas of universality (and their reception).

Patchy, for me, but now and then magnificent. I want to read again. ( )

This is a very strange book. Ostensibly a history of an ancient Mediterranean empire, it is actually entirely fiction (the subtitle is "A Novel, A History"). But d'Ormesson introduces references to real historians, artists, film-makers, and musicians, as in this phrase:"of whom Heidegger and Bertrand Russell both said . . . until Bacon and Descartes," and even includes endnotes of real and fictional historians and literary figures.

The story is of war and peace (mostly war), depravity, religion, philosophy, literature, music, and above all about history: what it is, how we know it, controversies. About three-quarters of the book is devoted to Alexis, the son of Helen, who was the granddaughter of a previous emperor. Raised in the northern woods, he is probably the son of a philosopher who Helen had an affair with during a siege of the town they lived in. Alexis is taunted by his older (half-)brother as a bastard and leaves the town with another philosopher as a tutor after a long talk with his mother. He winds up in Alexandria where he is initiated into a religion that worships the sun and lives life as a libertine. After a scandal involving the horrific death of a temple priestess he had a forbidden affair with, he sets out for Asia determined to atone for his sins and lives a life as an ascetic, learning from all the religions of the continent. He spends years there but is summoned back to be the emperor. He ends up ruling for more than 50 years, over an empire which eventually extends from the Atlantic to the Pacific after a lot of wars and violent conflicts. Ultimately he steps down, conflicted as always.

I have just skimmed the surface of this dense book. It is a work of philosophy, exploring the meaning of history. It bogged down for me at certain spots, but in the end it was fascinating.

Though this is a very byzantinesque fantasy, the work was not engaging. There was some satire of the usual fake academic historical framing, but the book never takes off. There is so much scene setting, there's no episodes. The story is completely lacking in incidents, or indeed, events!
So, it's unengaging, and I only finished it out of duty. ( )

A sort of fantasy retelling of the history of Byzantium. Sometimes it works, producing more artistic results than reality, sometimes it seems clumsier. Overall, I liked it. ( )