Alan Strauss-Schom has devoted himself to resurrecting the lives of others. His biographies of Napoleon Bonaparte, Napoleon III, and the great dramas of the Napoleonic era established him as one of the foremost narrative historians of his generation, a scholar whose meticulous archival research has always been matched by a novelist's eye for character and scene. His work reminds us that history is not merely a sequence of events, but an accumulation of human choices, ambitions, disappointments, and improbable turns of fate.
With The Swallows of Montafia, however, Strauss-Schom undertakes a different kind of excavation. Rather than tracing the footsteps of emperors and generals, he turns inward, examining the long journey that carried him from the American Midwest through the libraries and archives of France to the quiet hills of Piedmont. It is a memoir shaped less by dramatic confession than by reflection, where memory itself becomes the landscape to be explored.
The transition is more profound than it may first appear. Historians spend their lives interpreting evidence left behind by others, striving for objectivity while inevitably bringing something of themselves to every page. A memoir reverses the equation. The author becomes both witness and subject, forced to confront not only what happened, but what it meant. For a writer whose professional life has been dedicated to separating fact from myth, the challenge of writing about one's own life carries a special intellectual and emotional weight.
In the conversation that follows, we explore the relationship between history and memory, solitude and scholarship, ambition and contentment, and what it means for one of our finest historians to finally become the protagonist of his own story. Rather than looking backward with nostalgia, The Swallows of Montafia invites readers to consider how a life devoted to understanding the past can ultimately illuminate the present.
Charles Carlini: After spending decades reconstructing the lives of historical figures from letters, archives, and official records, what was it like to become both the historian and the subject of your own narrative?
Alan Strauss-Schom: Writing my memoirs has been a far more complex and difficult challenge than writing a work of history. For instance, a historical work may be neatly ordered chronologically—by events or time. My Eagles and Rising Sun, for example, began with Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, then led into the campaign in the Solomons. But in our personal lives, there is no equivalent timeline, few similar dramatic events, only daily routines. Selecting special points worthy of an entire chapter is quite a different kettle of fish.
CC: Your biographies are admired for their rigorous commitment to evidence. When memory conflicted with documented fact while writing your memoir, which did you trust, and why?
AS: I encountered no such conflicts.
CC: Throughout your career, you have written about extraordinary individuals who shaped history. Did writing about your own life change your understanding of what makes an ordinary life equally worthy of telling?
AS: Every man's story adds fresh information and knowledge to the "library of universal understanding." Every life, whether great or modest, provides "instruction" to the wise.
CC: The Swallows of Montafia seems deeply concerned with the idea of place. What is it about Montafia that finally gave you the sense of home after so many years spent following history across Europe?
AS: I selected Montafia for many reasons: it is quiet, uncrowded, off the beaten path, where one is reminded of the basics of human existence. Mayor Marchese is a charming most diligent chap in his 70s, who is genuinely interested in the welfare of our 900 inhabitants. We have a pharmiccist who knows every client by his/her name. If I am not well enough, Anna—the village grocer, personally brings me bread, vegetables and the provisions needed. And, alas, our funeral director lives just up the street. Those two thoroughfares are marked every couple of hundred feet by low powered street lamps, most of them semi-concealed by the leafy boughs of plane and lime trees. After 10 p.m. there is little traffic—two or three cars hourly, and at 11:30 pm the village bell rings for the last time until 6 am the following morning.
CC: Many readers imagine the historian's life as glamorous, filled with discoveries and dramatic revelations. Your memoir also acknowledges the solitude, uncertainty, and persistence that scholarship demands. What do you hope young historians will learn from that reality?
AS: What strikes me most as a result of my research is that people and nations cannot suppress the truth without demoting their positions as mature, responsible adults. For example, the French still do not acknowledge that they abandoned their British allies in France in mid-battle in 1940, just as they persist in protecting Pétain's “good name.”
The Italians still claim to have been our Anglo-American allies in WWII—that is, after abandoning their German allies for a second time—while also forgetting that the Anglo-American Allies suffered 350,000 casualties in Italy, more than in any other European country, even Germany. This is reality. This is historical truth.
CC: Napoleon and Napoleon III were men determined to shape history through force of will. Looking back on your own life, do you believe our lives are primarily the result of deliberate choices, or are they more often shaped by chance and circumstance?
AS: Our national lives are largely affected by the character of our national leaders, but chance and circumstance always play major roles.
CC: The image of swallows returning each season is a powerful metaphor throughout the book. When did that symbol first become meaningful to you, and how did it come to represent the larger arc of your life?
AS: One of the grand things about being old is that we slow down, sit down in the garden or on our balcony, and actually take the time to look about us—finally! We observe nature, truly observe nature, perhaps for the first time. The swallows of Montafia are a good example. Last August, thirty-six of these fragile birds, weighing an average of 8-10 grams, departed for the south of Africa; ten of them survived to return here at the end of March this year. These creatures grace our skies, circling over our green valley each evening, bringing inestimable delight and richesse to our lives, reminding us of what is truly of value. I am blessed . . . but are we worthy of them?
CC: Was there a moment during the writing of this memoir when you realized you had discovered something about yourself that decades of historical research had never revealed?
AS: After more than sixty years of studying history, I am glad that I have spent most of my life living in the countryside, far from . . . .
CC: Your work has always balanced scholarly precision with graceful storytelling. Did writing a memoir allow you greater freedom as a writer, or did it impose an even greater responsibility to remain faithful to the truth?
AS: “Truth” has always held a special place in my life. As for the role of freedom, I have always been a maverick, in defiance of commercial dictates. That is why I choose my own topics and write all my books well before finding publishers for them. I write what is fitting and proper for each work. I do not compromise when it comes to editorial integrity. I never have. I am not interested in what is ”popular” or what pleases the masses.
CC: After a lifetime spent helping readers understand the past, what single hope do you have for those who close the final page of The Swallows of Montafia? What conversation do you hope continues after the book is finished?
AS: I have written memoirs for today's young generation of historians; what they make of them . . . .
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