Justan Autor

Justan Autor came late to the wicked joy of novels, having first tried his hand at most of the civilised arts: he painted pictures, trimmed hedgerows into obedience, stitched respectable garments, and wooed a pianoforte into confessing melodies. Only thereafter did he discover that narrative mischief suited him best.

A devotee of the 18th and 19th‑century masters, he writes in a classical key with a modern tempo — history that crackles, characters with inconvenient desires, and a burlesque glint when daggers flash. His first novel ushers readers into 1790s Switzerland: mountains, intrigue, and a hero who frequently collides with his own better judgement.

If you fancy Dumas for the dash, Fielding for the grin, Austen for the bite, and Dickens for the sweep — served with present‑day verve — do make his acquaintance.