And just as Austerlitz had broken off with these words that first evening, so he continued his observations the following day, for which we had arranged a meeting on the promenade beside the Schelde. Pointing to the broad river sparkling in the morning sun, he spoke of a picture painted by Lucas van Valckenborch toward the end of the sixteenth century during what is now called the Little Ice Age, showing the frozen Schelde from the opposite bank, with the city of Antwerp very dark beyond it and a strip of flat countryside stretching toward the sea.
Austerlitz by W. J. Sebald. There is a rule for writers, "Don't tell, show." This book does the opposite. The entire novel is Jacques Austerlitz telling his life story to an unnamed narrator. His fictional life is interesting, but he goes off on digressions about walled fortifications, moths, exotic birds, Liverpool Station, Turner aquatints, and a dozen other things. It's like following someone click through random Wikipedia articles.
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