Novels by Hans Christian Andersen

Writer and poet, born tuesday april 2, 1805 in Odense (Denmark), died wednesday august 4, 1875 in Copenhagen (Denmark)
You can find this author also in Quotes & Aphorisms.

Posted by: Edoardo Grimoldi
Many, many years ago there was an emperor who was so terribly fond of beautiful new clothes that he spent all his money on his attire. He did not care about his soldiers, or attending the theatre, or even going for a drive in the park, unless it was to show off his new clothes. He had an outfit... [continue to read ]
Hans Christian Andersen
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    I can give her no greater power than she has already," said the woman; "don't you see how strong that is? How men and animals are obliged to serve her, and how well she has got through the world, barefooted as she is. She cannot receive any power from me greater than she now has, which consists... [continue to read ]
    Hans Christian Andersen
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      When he saw Tiny, he was delighted, and thought her the prettiest little maiden he had ever seen. He took the gold crown from his head, and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if she would be his wife, and queen over all the flowers. This certainly was a very different sort of husband to... [continue to read ]
      Hans Christian Andersen
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        Death continued to stare at the emperor with his cold, hollow eyes, and the room was fearfully still. Suddenly there came through the open window the sound of sweet music. Outside, on the bough of a tree, sat the living nightingale. She had heard of the emperor's illness, and was therefore come... [continue to read ]
        Hans Christian Andersen
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          "I have gone through the most terrible affair that could possibly happen; only imagine, my shadow has gone mad; I suppose such a poor, shallow brain, could not bear much; he fancies that he has become a real man, and that I am his shadow." "How very terrible," cried the princess; "is he locked up... [continue to read ]
          Hans Christian Andersen
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            We sometimes live to three hundred years, but when we cease to exist here we only become the foam on the surface of the water, and we have not even a grave down here of those we love. We have not immortal souls, because Estelle is a star and we shall never live again; but, like the green sea-weed... [continue to read ]
            Hans Christian Andersen
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              She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance. "Grandmother," cried the little one, "o take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish... [continue to read ]
              Hans Christian Andersen
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