The Alps

The Alps are the highest and most extensive mountain range system that lies entirely in Europe, stretching approximately 750 mi (1,210 km) across eight Alpine countries (from west to east): France, Switzerland, Monaco, Italy, Liechtenstein, Austria, Germany, and Slovenia.

The Alps Books

The Alps: A Human History from Hannibal to Heidi and Beyond

Eiger Dreams: Ventures Among Men and Mountains

Starlight and Storm: The Conquest of the Great North Faces of the Alps (Modern Library Exploration)

Near Death in the Mountains: True Stories of Disaster and Survival (Vintage Departures)

Augustus: The Life of Rome's First Emperor

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Lists

Wilhelm Tell - William Tell

23 books — 1 voter

Banner in the Sky by James Ramsey Ullman

Dogs in the Dead of Night by Mary Pope Osborne

Switzerland in Juvenile Fiction

179 books — 10 voters

White Stallion of Lipizza by Marguerite Henry

Trapped in Hitler's Web by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

Austria in Juvenile Fiction - Österreich

87 books — 5 voters

The Mountains of My Life by Walter Bonatti

Annapurna, First Conquest of an 8000-Meter Peak by Maurice Herzog

Mountaineering

28 books — 28 voters

Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin

Mountains

741 books — 108 voters

And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini

The Mountains Are Calling...

173 books — 17 voters

Featured News & Interviews

New Voices Alert! 51 New & Upcoming Debut Novels

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Quotes Tagged “The Alps”

“ I have been to the Alpine countries of Austria and Ardamia before, but never to this corner of the range, and while the journey to St. Liesl, which perches high above sea level, was not a comfortable one, it took my breath away. The path wound up a mountainside still dotted with the last of the summer flowers, snowbells and cheery buttercups. Mountains cluttered every horizon, many crowned in an eternal snow. Below us was the town of Leoburg with its railroad, its neat stone-and-timber buildings ...more ”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands

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“ A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon—a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity—and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world. I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon—I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris—I saw him at t A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon—a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity—and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world. I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon—I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris—I saw him at the head of the army of Italy—I saw him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tri-color in his hand—I saw him in Egypt in the shadows of the pyramids—I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo—at Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster—driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris—clutched like a wild beast—banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea. I thought of the orphans and widows he had made—of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky—with my children upon my knees and their arms about me—I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as 'Napoleon the Great. ...more ”
― Robert G. Ingersoll, The Liberty of Man, Woman and Child

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