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Napoleon's Tears
Alexander of Macedon; The Great (the T, of course, capitalised); the warrior; the boy general; the traveller, has long been a fascination of mine: my brother was named for him and, in turn, my son for he; a man who lived a life so vast it beggars both language and film. Napoleon was also a fan and, sitting here, quite impossibly, at his writing desk, in his study at Longwood House, St. Helena, gazing through his window at his small, but lovely garden, at the banks of flowers and at the well hoed vegetable patch, I wonder if he too did weep; his empire, his field of influence, reduced to a few square metres; his fame swept far, far away, his energy spent and his ambition reduced to nought; his homely, but exquisite vista the property of his captors, an ironic, gifted comfort.
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