Having spent half an hour or so browsing through my little book about Motovun’s history, I returned it to its rightful place on the bookshelf.[1] “A good read,” I sighed somewhat dejectedly. Indeed, it is packed with good stuff that cannot be discovered without spending several years in the hilltown itself. Residence in it is of the essence, as it were. Reading books about it and visiting it a few times would never produce a history worthy of that name. “A good read,” I sighed again and headed for the kitchen to pour myself a glace of wine. Only then I realized that residence in Motovun may be good for history, but not for the poor historian. Too much poison for such a tiny a place.

Footnote

1. Toward a Short History of Motovun, Munich: Elisabeth Sandmann Verlag, 2010.