In our first episode, I interview Napoleon Bonaparte (born Napoleone di Buonaparte), the short man from Europe who changed history forever by envisioning a precursor to the European Union and who nearly gained the whole world but lost it all in the end.
One of the many historical figures I’ve been interested in throughout my life is Napoleon Bonaparte. You know, the short dude with the giant hat riding on the horse?
Who was this crazy little man? Was he really so short in stature? Was he Italian, or French, or both? Why did he claim to be a friend of the people but then basically crown himself emperor of all of Europe? What was his main goal, if not total, utter, megalomaniacal conquest of the entire globe?
These are questions I’ve always found amusing but they aren’t exactly burning in their level of urgency, so I’ve just quietly wondered about them. It’s far too much work to read through the many giant tomes that have been written about Napoleon over the years, and I’ve found most history books to be exceptionally dry. Usually, they’re so boring I can’t even get through the first few chapters, let alone the entire book.
So, in this episode of Zombie History, join me as I prop up a Zombie Napoleon in the overstuffed chair across from me in my dimly lit den as the embers flicker in the fireplace and we have a “get to know you discussion.”
Armed with an amazing grasp of the English language (which is, of course, completely historically inaccurate), as well as a complete and total understanding of the digital world and an omniscient, God-like view of all of human history up to now, this Cyborg version of Napoleon Bonaparte can speak with authority from Napoleon’s life and experience from his earliest days all the way to today, over 200 years after his death.
Join me as I light up a cigar, take a warm swig of cognac, swish its brassy essence around on my tongue, and talk to my very first guest on this podcast, Napoleon Bonaparte.
As Napoleon himself might say, “Messieurs, commençons”. “Gentlemen, let us begin.”
Ron Stauffer: Hi, Napoleon.
Ah, Bonsoir, Ron. It is a pleasure to meet you. I like the setting you've created. Cigars, cognac, and a good conversation. What is it you wish to know from the Emperor himself? Ask away, and I shall answer with the precision of a battlefield command.
Ron Stauffer: First things first, why do you have such a weird name, and are you actually Italian or French?
Ah, I see you want it straight, Ron. My name—Napoleon Bonaparte—is French now, though it began as Napoleone di Buonaparte, reflecting my Italian roots. But as for who I am? By birth, Corsican. By ambition and choice, undeniably French.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, well, that's interesting. What language did you speak?
I grew up speaking Italian, or more precisely, Corsican—a dialect close to Italian. But once I set my sights on France, I quickly adopted French as my primary language. It became the tongue I used in battle, politics, and empire-building. Though, between us, my early French had a bit of an accent.
Ron Stauffer: That’s funny. Okay, what about your size? I don't know if you know this, but sometimes people have suggested that perhaps you tried to conquer the entire world because you were overcompensating because you were such a short person. Tell me about your size in relation to whether that was normal for people of your era or not, and specifically whether that was an issue in your own life. Did people think of you as particularly short?
Ah, yes, this "Napoleon complex" nonsense! In truth, I was around five foot six in modern terms, which was quite average for my time. The idea that I was particularly short comes from a misunderstanding—French inches were longer than English ones, so when my height was recorded, it seemed smaller than it actually was to some.
Now, as for overcompensating—ha!—I did not need to be tall to command respect. My ambition, strategy, and charisma were more than enough to make up for a few inches. No one on the battlefield thought about my height when they saw the results! So, it wasn’t an issue for me. The world I conquered saw me as larger than life, and that’s what mattered.
Ron Stauffer: You make a fair point. Okay. So talk about the conquering that you did. I mean, it kind of seems like sitting here from the history I've read, you wanted to essentially take over all of Europe. Did you think that was your right? Were you into the whole divine right of kings or, did you think God chose you to rule the earth or something like that?
Ah, divine right? No, no, that was not my philosophy. I didn’t need the blessing of some monarch's god to justify my ambitions. I believed in merit—my own, above all. I rose not by birth, but by my ability, my vision. France was in chaos after the Revolution, and I seized the opportunity to bring order, stability, and, of course, glory.
As for conquering Europe, it wasn’t so much about taking everything for myself. It was about spreading the ideals of the Revolution—liberty, equality, fraternity—but on my terms. Europe was a collection of decaying monarchies, and I saw myself as the one to bring about a new order. I believed in destiny and that through conquest, I could reshape the world. But divine right? Non! I forged my own path.
Ron Stauffer: Hmm, so were you a brutal oppressor and a tyrant, or were you more of a “man of the people?”
Ah, the eternal question! Let’s just say, I was both, depending on who you asked. To my soldiers and many in France, I was a man of the people—a leader who rose from humble origins, a symbol of meritocracy, and someone who brought law and order through the Napoleonic Code. I gave many their first taste of social mobility and national pride.
But to my enemies, especially the monarchs of Europe, I was a tyrant, a relentless force who disrupted the old order and bent nations to my will. Yes, I demanded loyalty, and yes, there was bloodshed—war is never gentle. But I always believed I was advancing civilization, not oppressing it
Ron Stauffer: Okay, so what was your big beef with monarchy? I mean, Europe was built on the basis of monarchies of many different peoples, many different languages and races. What was your specific problem with monarchy and what were you trying to accomplish by destroying or demolishing monarchies?
Ah, monarchy. My problem was simple: it represented stagnation, privilege by birth rather than by merit. Europe’s monarchs sat on their thrones, ruling by virtue of lineage, while people lived under systems that served only the elite. I, on the other hand, believed in the power of the individual—those who prove themselves worthy should lead, not those born to it.
By challenging monarchies, I sought to spread the principles of the French Revolution—equality, meritocracy, the end of feudalism. Monarchies resisted these ideas because they threatened their very existence. My aim was not merely to destroy them, but to replace that old, rigid structure with something more dynamic and just.
I wanted to create a Europe where talent, not blood, determined one’s place. Of course, I wasn’t opposed to ruling myself—just that I earned it through victory and vision, not birthright. Monarchs clung to the past; I sought to shape the future.
Ron Stauffer: That seems a little bit ironic though, because didn't you at one point literally crown yourself emperor of all of Europe?
Ah, yes, the irony isn’t lost on me, Ron. But consider this—when I crowned myself Emperor, I wasn’t submitting to the old ways. In fact, I was rejecting them. I didn’t let the Pope place that crown on my head; I took it for myself. That act symbolized my belief that power comes from achievement, not divine right.
Now, why emperor? Europe was a place of empires, and I understood that to consolidate power and maintain stability, a strong, centralized figure was necessary. The title wasn’t about returning to monarchy; it was about ensuring that the revolutionary ideals had the strength behind them to survive.
That act was meant to show that power, in my view, comes from personal achievement, not from divine right or inherited privilege. Now, as to why I took the title of emperor, Europe was filled with empires. And I knew that to secure France's position and to maintain stability, a strong centralized leader was necessary. So while I did take the crown, it wasn't to become just another monarch—it was to symbolize that I had earned my place through victory and vision, not through some ancient bloodline.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, so if I can be a little bit sarcastic with you right now, you said victory in vision, and yet one of the things you're most famous for is the unbelievable mistake of invading Russia. That ended poorly, didn't it?
Ah, yes, Ron—that campaign. I won’t deny it, invading Russia was a grave miscalculation. My vision of bringing Tsar Alexander back in line with my Continental System clouded my judgment. The truth is, Russia's vastness, the brutal winter, and their scorched-earth tactics bled my Grande Armée dry. The cold, starvation—those were enemies even I could not conquer.
It was a harsh lesson: ambition without limits can lead to disaster. That march into Russia—well, it’s the one campaign I’d rather not relive over this fine cognac. You could say my overconfidence was my downfall. A bitter defeat, but one that even an Emperor must own up to.
Ron Stauffer: Okay. Well, so what was your grand vision though? Obviously, expansion of some sort was one of your goals, and crowning yourself emperor was one of your goals. What was “Napoleon’s theory of Europe,” if I were to give it a term? What was the outcome that you had desired for the continent in general?
My grand vision—let’s call it the "Napoleonic Europe." I envisioned a unified continent, not fragmented by squabbling monarchies and petty alliances, but one where the principles of the French Revolution—liberty, equality, fraternity—were the foundation of governance. Of course, I saw myself as the leader to bring this about, but my goal wasn’t just personal power.
I wanted to create a Europe where outdated feudal systems were swept away, where laws like the Napoleonic Code brought fairness and reason, where merit determined a person's place in society, not birth. I imagined a strong, centralized Europe that could rival Britain’s global influence and break their economic dominance. By aligning the continent economically and politically under my rule, I believed we could achieve prosperity and stability—an empire of order, but one grounded in reason, not aristocratic privilege.
In a way, I sought to balance old Europe with modern ideals. Expansion was a means to that end, not just for conquest’s sake. But in the end, my vision outpaced reality. The monarchs of Europe couldn’t accept such a shift, and my ambition, well, you could say it grew too grand for even the continent to hold.
Ron Stauffer: That's interesting. The way you talked about Britain, are you saying that Britain was your chief enemy? Who were you fighting against mostly? Who was the ultimate bad guy: all monarchies in general, everywhere, all over Europe, or specifically Britain?
Ah, Britain—La perfide Albion—they were indeed my greatest rival. Of course, I fought many monarchs across Europe, but Britain was always the most persistent thorn in my side. While other monarchies came and went in alliances, Britain stood firm, always financing my enemies, forming coalitions against me, and using their naval supremacy to blockade and strangle France economically.
In many ways, Britain represented the ultimate obstacle to my vision of a unified Europe. Their monarchy wasn’t just about tradition—it was tied to a global empire and a powerful economic system that I saw as exploitative and oppressive. Britain didn’t want Europe united under my rule because they thrived off the divisions of the continent, playing one power against another.
So yes, I fought monarchies, but Britain was the constant force behind nearly every coalition that opposed me. If I could have broken Britain, the rest of Europe would have fallen into line. They were the ultimate enemy, the shadow always working against me. Their empire stood in contrast to the Europe I sought to build—one of control through naval power and commerce, not the ideals I held.
Ron Stauffer: Interesting. So are you saying you envisioned a clash of the Titans, where it would be you taking on the ultimate foe? You're saying that Britain ruled Europe with an iron fist, and in a sense, it was “Britain versus everybody?”
Exactly, Ron. That’s precisely how I saw it—a clash of titans. Britain was the puppet master of Europe, pulling the strings behind the scenes, using its wealth and its powerful navy to maintain dominance. While I fought on land, Britain ruled the seas and controlled much of the global trade, which kept their influence strong across the continent.
In a way, it was “Britain versus everybody.” They didn’t care who ruled the individual nations of Europe, as long as those nations remained divided and dependent on British trade and money. I envisioned breaking that cycle, creating a united Europe under French leadership, free from Britain’s economic stranglehold.
The struggle wasn’t just military; it was economic, political, and ideological. Britain wanted to maintain the old order, with its mercantile system, colonies, and monarchies. I wanted to create a new order—a modern Europe, where merit and the ideals of the Revolution could flourish. So yes, I saw myself as the one who would finally break Britain’s grip on Europe. It was, in many ways, a titanic struggle between two very different visions of the world.
Ron Stauffer: That is fascinating. Let's say you smashed the dominance of Britain, are you saying you envisioned that France would somehow rule all of Europe? So specifically, people would all be speaking French and they'd all be using French currency and things like that?
Not quite, Ron. My goal wasn’t to turn all of Europe into a replica of France, with everyone speaking French and using French currency—that would have been unrealistic. I didn’t aim to erase the unique identities of the nations I conquered. Instead, I envisioned a Europe united under a common set of laws, principles, and economic cooperation, with France as its central power and guiding force.
The Napoleonic Code, for example, was something I believed could benefit all nations—uniform laws, civil rights, and a merit-based society, but adapted to their own cultures. I saw French influence leading the way, but not forcing complete assimilation. I wanted Europe to be strong, modern, and efficient, with France at the helm, yes, but with nations keeping their languages, customs, and currencies—just under a system that aligned them toward common goals, economic strength, and stability.
So, while French would naturally hold a prominent place—especially in politics, diplomacy, and military matters—I didn’t want to impose uniformity. My vision was more about unity of purpose, where France was first among equals, if you will. Europe, strong and modern, with France as the keystone—but still European, not just French.
Ron Stauffer: Interesting. How does that differ from what the Eurozone has done today in the 21st Century? Is the European Union just a bigger, grander, more realistic vision of what you originally thought about centuries ago?
Ah, now that is a fascinating question, Ron! In many ways, the European Union today echoes the broader aspects of what I envisioned—a Europe united by common laws, economic cooperation, and shared principles, but without erasing the individuality of its member states. The EU’s goal of preventing constant conflict and fostering peace, trade, and mobility across borders is something I would have appreciated, though my methods were, shall we say, more direct.
The Eurozone, with its shared currency, is perhaps even closer to what I might have imagined, though I wasn’t focused on a single currency in my time. The economic integration and coordination among nations reflect the unity I sought. However, the EU has achieved this unity through diplomacy and agreement, not conquest, which is a significant and wiser difference, perhaps.
Where the EU differs most from my vision is in its balance of power. I saw France as the natural leader of a united Europe, whereas the EU functions through a more balanced, collaborative structure. No one nation dominates; power is more evenly distributed. In that sense, the EU is a more modern, democratic, and sustainable version of what I sought to achieve.
In short, yes, the European Union is in many ways a grander, more peaceful realization of the continental unity I once dreamed of—but without the need for my particular brand of military ambition.
Ron Stauffer: That’s interesting that you mention the term “democratic,” because the European Union is definitely democratic in just about every imaginable way, yet what you did, I don't believe was democratic at all, was it? Were you ever elected, or did you just assume power yourself through force?
Ah, you’ve touched on an important distinction, Ron. No, my rise to power was not through what you’d call a modern democratic process. I was not elected in the way leaders are today. I seized power through a coup—the 18th Brumaire—and later consolidated it by appealing to the will of the people through plebiscites. These votes gave a veneer of popular support to my rule, but they were far from what you’d call a truly free or competitive election.
I believed in meritocracy, yes, but I also believed in strong, centralized authority—one figure to guide the nation and prevent the chaos that democracy had brought during the Revolution. In my eyes, democracy, in its purest form, could lead to disorder and weakness. So, I did what I thought was necessary: I took control, stabilized France, and gave the people a sense of order and strength.
That said, I did implement reforms—like the Napoleonic Code—that advanced individual rights and created more equality before the law, but my rule itself was far from democratic. It was autocratic, shaped by the belief that I was the best man to lead France and Europe. So, no, I wasn’t elected in any meaningful sense—power was something I took, not something that was handed to me by the people.
Ron Stauffer: That is very interesting, especially when you think about, Britain being one of your chief enemies, but you had some supporters too, and in particular, I'm thinking of the musical composer, Beethoven, who was enthralled with you and even named a symphony after you. And that didn't end up going so well, right? I mean, he got pretty disillusioned based on, I think, thinking that you were going to be a new kind of leader and then you ended up taking ultimate power, right? Can you elaborate on that?
Ah, yes, Beethoven. The man had quite the revolutionary spirit himself, didn’t he? He admired me deeply at first, seeing in me the embodiment of the ideals of the French Revolution—liberty, equality, fraternity. He believed I was a new kind of leader who would break the chains of monarchy and usher in a new era of freedom for Europe. His Eroica Symphony was originally dedicated to me, a tribute to what he thought I stood for: a champion of the people.
But when I crowned myself Emperor, that admiration soured. He saw it as a betrayal of those revolutionary ideals, an abandonment of the promise of a new order in favor of personal power. Beethoven famously scratched my name from the symphony’s dedication with such anger that he tore a hole through the paper. To him, I had become just another tyrant, another monarch, like the ones I had once claimed to overthrow.
From my perspective, though, I hadn’t betrayed the Revolution—I had saved it. In my view, the Revolution had descended into chaos, and only strong leadership could preserve its gains. But to someone like Beethoven, who saw pure ideals and hoped for a world governed by them, my crowning as Emperor was unforgivable. It was the moment he realized I wasn’t the liberator he had envisioned, but a ruler who saw the need for order, sometimes at the expense of liberty.
So, yes, Beethoven’s disillusionment is a fascinating reflection of the tension between ideals and the realities of power. Where he saw betrayal, I saw necessity. It’s a shame, but such is the burden of leadership.
Ron Stauffer: You had this whole thing going over in Europe, or what I here in America might call the old world, and you were fighting against Britain and the monarchy. And over here, across the pond, we were doing a bit of that ourselves.
Can you kind of compare and contrast the American Revolution over here, fighting against the British monarchy with what you were doing over there? Maybe Britain was fighting, on two fronts, right? The old world and the new world at the same time with the American Revolution here, and whatever you were up to in the old world then?
Ah, the American Revolution—a fascinating parallel, Ron. Indeed, both the American colonists and I were, in our own ways, challenging British power and the old monarchical order, but we approached it from different angles, and the contexts were quite distinct.
In America, you were fighting for independence, not just from Britain, but from monarchy and colonial rule itself. The American Revolution was about self-determination, throwing off the yoke of a distant monarchy to establish a new republic, based on Enlightenment ideals—liberty, democracy, and a government by the people, for the people. It was a direct rebellion against the British Crown’s tyranny, taxation, and lack of representation. You weren’t just breaking free from a monarchy—you were creating something entirely new, something truly revolutionary in its commitment to representative government.
Now, in Europe, my fight was different. While I also opposed the British monarchy, my struggle wasn’t about independence—it was about reshaping Europe, uniting it under my rule, and spreading the ideals of the French Revolution. But instead of creating a republic like America, I sought to centralize power in my own hands. I believed in meritocracy and revolutionary principles, but I also saw the need for strong leadership to guide and protect those ideals. The chaos and bloodshed of the French Revolution had convinced me that a purely democratic system wasn’t enough to maintain order.
So, while America was fighting for independence and republicanism, I was fighting to transform Europe by force, uniting it under a modern, merit-based empire, with France—and myself—at the center. Britain, of course, was our common enemy. In America, they were defending their imperial interests, while in Europe, they were trying to maintain the balance of power and prevent my expansion. In a way, Britain was fighting to preserve its old-world influence on both sides of the Atlantic.
In short, while we shared a common adversary in Britain, America’s revolution was about creating something entirely new—a democratic republic—while my struggle was about transforming Europe’s old order through conquest, albeit still rooted in some of the revolutionary ideals that we both cherished. Britain, you could say, was stretched between the old world and the new, fighting to maintain its grip on both.
Ron Stauffer: That’s interesting. So maybe not strictly in the sense of governance structure, but certainly in terms of Enlightenment ideals and freedom and liberty and things of that nature. It sounds like you and the Founding Fathers here in America would have had a lot in common. Did you know any of them specifically and had you met them in person?
Ah, you’re right in pointing out the shared ideals, Ron. Though our paths were quite different, the Enlightenment ideals of liberty, equality, and rational governance were foundational both for the American Founding Fathers and for what I sought to implement in France and Europe.
We were, in many ways, kindred spirits when it came to the intellectual movement of the time.
However, I never met any of the American Founding Fathers in person, as our orbits didn’t quite overlap in that way. But I certainly admired what they had accomplished. Figures like Thomas Jefferson, for instance, were deeply influenced by Enlightenment philosophy, as was I. In fact, Jefferson was the American minister to France during the early days of the French Revolution, though I wasn’t yet in power then.
I always saw the American experiment as a successful application of Enlightenment ideas in a new world context, even if their focus on democracy and republicanism was different from the centralized rule I believed Europe required.
In some ways, I think we would have had fascinating debates, especially about the balance between liberty and order. While they embraced freedom through democracy, I believed that Europe’s complexities needed a strong, singular figure to steer it. But our shared belief in merit, individual rights, and progress through reason would have provided common ground.
Had I met them, I suspect we might have found ourselves aligned in principle but perhaps divided in practice. Still, the American Revolution was an inspiring moment in world history, one that proved Enlightenment ideals could reshape a nation. It’s one of the reasons I held such respect for what the United States had achieved.
Ron Stauffer: You know, actually, I take it back now. So when you say that, it makes me think about what I said earlier about old world versus new world. But actually, France had a significant involvement in the new world, right, with the Louisiana Purchase. Well, before that, just with Louisiana in general and with New Orleans, right?
Ah, yes, now you’ve brought up a crucial part of history, Ron! France’s involvement in the New World was indeed significant, and the Louisiana Territory was a key piece of that. For much of the 18th century, France held vast lands in North America, including what you know as Louisiana, which stretched far beyond the modern state, encompassing much of the central United States.
As for me, I actually played a direct role in that chapter of history. When I came to power, France had regained control of Louisiana from Spain in the Treaty of San Ildefonso in 1800. My original plan was to reestablish a strong French presence in the Americas, particularly by using Louisiana as a base to rebuild the French Empire in the Western Hemisphere. New Orleans, with its vital port, was key to controlling trade and influence in the region.
However, my ambitions in Europe soon demanded my full attention. The war with Britain and other European powers made it difficult to maintain control over distant colonies, especially with Britain’s naval superiority. Plus, my efforts to suppress the slave rebellion in Haiti—a vital colony—were failing, and that drained resources. Realizing that I needed to focus on Europe and that holding onto Louisiana would be costly and difficult, I made a practical decision: I sold the territory to the United States in 1803—the famous Louisiana Purchase.
It was a stroke of genius for both sides, I think. I got a quick infusion of cash to fund my wars in Europe, and the Americans doubled the size of their nation, gaining control of the Mississippi River and vast resources. New Orleans and the port became American, and the United States was on its way to becoming a continental power.
So, while France’s presence in the New World was significant, my decision to sell Louisiana was driven by strategic necessity. I had to choose between an empire in Europe or one in the Americas, and my ambitions were firmly set on reshaping Europe. But, in doing so, I inadvertently helped America grow into the power it would become, which is an irony I can appreciate over this cognac!
Ron Stauffer: So that’s interesting. You’re saying you had to choose? At what point did you know that, let's say, Louisiana in The New World was lost? Or, you know, at what point did you decide, I can't hold on to both, or I'm straddling the fence and I’ve got to pick one side? When did you know that and how did you come to that decision?
Ah, that’s a key moment in my decision-making, Ron. The tipping point came around the time of my struggle in the Caribbean, particularly with Haiti. Haiti, then known as Saint-Domingue, was the most profitable colony in the French Empire, thanks to its sugar production. I had plans to reestablish France’s dominance in the Americas, using both Haiti and Louisiana to build a strong foothold.
But by 1802-1803, the situation in Haiti had deteriorated beyond what I could control. A massive slave rebellion, led by Toussaint Louverture and later by Jean-Jacques Dessalines, was pushing French forces to the brink. Yellow fever decimated my troops, and it became clear that regaining full control of the Caribbean would be far more difficult—and costly—than I had anticipated.
At the same time, the looming threat of war with Britain weighed heavily on me. Britain’s powerful navy was always a threat to my colonial ambitions, and if I couldn’t hold Haiti, Louisiana’s value was diminished. How could I protect that vast, distant territory when I couldn’t even maintain my most valuable colony nearby? Britain would have seized it eventually, if not directly by force, then by cutting off its trade and isolating it.
So, in early 1803, I made the decision: Europe had to be my focus. I realized that holding onto Louisiana without secure control of the Caribbean, while facing constant British aggression, was a fool’s errand. Rather than lose Louisiana to the British for nothing, I chose to sell it to the Americans.
The sale was quick—Thomas Jefferson’s emissaries were already interested in acquiring New Orleans, but I saw the advantage in selling the entire territory. The $15 million they paid was a huge sum, and it gave me the resources I desperately needed for my campaigns in Europe.
In short, I knew Louisiana was lost when it became clear that I couldn’t hold both the Caribbean and Europe simultaneously, especially with the British looming over my shoulder. It was a practical, strategic decision. I couldn’t stretch my empire too thin, so I made the tough choice to let the New World go and focus on what I believed was my destiny: conquering Europe.
Ron Stauffer: Are you saying that if you didn't have to make that decision, you would have somehow envisioned not only remaking Europe into some, you know, Uber France or Grand France or some sort of version of Europe under French rule or influence, but you're saying also you would have kept the area known as Louisiana in the New World? Like an intercontinental kingdom in, you know, both North America and the European continent that you'd be in charge of?
Ah, now that is an intriguing thought, Ron. Yes, had circumstances been different—had I not been entangled in wars in Europe and had I succeeded in maintaining control of the Caribbean—there’s no doubt that I would have pursued a French empire that stretched across both the Old World and the New. I had ambitions not just for Europe, but for global influence.
Had I been able to hold onto Louisiana, it would have served as the anchor for French power in North America, alongside my Caribbean colonies. I would have built a transcontinental empire that rivaled Britain’s. New Orleans, with its strategic port, would have been the gateway to controlling the Mississippi River, the interior of North America, and the vast resources the land held. France could have influenced trade, politics, and culture across the Atlantic, creating a Franco-American empire of sorts.
And as you say, Europe would have been a grand version of itself, unified under French principles—law, order, meritocracy—with me as its leader. The New World, meanwhile, would have been an extension of that, a place where French power and influence could thrive far from Europe’s conflicts. I could envision a powerful alliance between Europe and North America under my rule, with France at the center, shaping global affairs on both continents.
But, as history unfolded, the realities of maintaining an empire on two fronts—across two continents—proved too much. The war in Europe demanded all my attention, and Britain’s naval dominance made sustaining a New World empire practically impossible without overwhelming resources. I had to make the choice: Europe or the Americas.
Still, the idea of a transcontinental empire, spanning both Europe and North America, was certainly something I would have pursued, had the fates been more favorable. I saw France not as a mere European power, but as a global force—one that could have shaped the destiny of both worlds.
Ron Stauffer: Wow, that's fascinating. Let's change gears a little bit and talk about something a little more fun and personal. Tell me briefly about your childhood. Were you a rich kid? Did you grow up in poverty? What's your story? How does just one person like you get into becoming such an unbelievably influential person that we're still talking about hundreds of years later?
Ah, my childhood—quite a journey from there to where I ended up, Ron. I wasn’t born into wealth, but I also didn’t grow up in abject poverty. I was born in Corsica in 1769, just after the island had been taken over by France. My family was part of the minor nobility, but we weren’t rich. Corsica was a rugged place, and we lived modestly, though we had some connections to French society.
My father, Carlo, was ambitious and managed to secure a scholarship for me to study in mainland France. I was sent to military school at a young age, which was a real turning point. You could say I was a bit of an outsider—this Corsican boy surrounded by French aristocrats. I didn’t fit in at first, but I was fiercely determined, and I poured everything into my studies, especially in military strategy and mathematics.
My upbringing taught me two things: first, the importance of merit. I knew that if I was going to rise, it wouldn’t be because of birthright or wealth, but because of my abilities. Second, it fueled my ambition. I saw how the world worked—the power held by the aristocracy, the privileges of the few—and I knew I could challenge that. My early life was all about proving myself, first as a young officer, then on the battlefields of France.
But to answer your question of how one person becomes so influential—well, it’s a mix of circumstance and will. I came of age during the French Revolution, a time of incredible upheaval. The old order was collapsing, and for someone like me, who had skill, vision, and relentless drive, that chaos was the perfect opportunity. I seized it with both hands, rising through the ranks, first as a general and then as First Consul, and eventually Emperor.
So, while I wasn’t born into great privilege, I had enough opportunity to get my foot in the door. After that, it was all about what I could do with it. And as you can see, I made sure to make the most of it!
Ron Stauffer: Yeah, clearly you did. At the risk of perhaps insulting you, did you have any nicknames growing up, especially as a child, but then even into your later years? And if so, were there nicknames that you did like about yourself or for yourself? And were there nicknames that you didn't like, perhaps?
Ah, nicknames! You won’t insult me, Ron, I assure you—I've heard them all, and they say much about how people viewed me at different stages of my life. As a child, growing up in Corsica, I was sometimes called “U Nabuleone,” which was the Corsican form of my name. Nothing particularly fancy there, but it was a nod to my origins.
As I rose in France, people started calling me "Le Petit Caporal"—the Little Corporal—early in my military career. Now, while some might think it refers to my height, it was actually a term of endearment among my soldiers. They admired me because I often fought alongside them, shared their hardships, and paid attention to details on the battlefield. It wasn’t about being “small” in stature, but about my connection with my men. I liked that one—it reminded me of my early victories and the loyalty of my troops.
But, of course, there were nicknames I didn’t enjoy. The British, ever my enemies, had quite a few, often mocking my height or my ambition. “The Corsican Ogre” was a popular one in England. They saw me as a ruthless figure, devouring Europe, and painted me as some monstrous, insatiable tyrant. Needless to say, that one wasn’t my favorite.
In later years, after my defeat and exile, people used terms like “the usurper” or “the tyrant,” which reflected how much fear and animosity I’d stirred up among Europe’s monarchs. They despised what I represented—an outsider who had toppled kings and reshaped nations.
But as for nicknames I embraced? I think "The Emperor" will do quite nicely. It speaks for itself.
Ron Stauffer: That sounds great. What about marriages? Were you ever married?
Ah, yes, I was married twice, Ron. My first wife was Joséphine de Beauharnais, a widow with two children, who captured my heart early in my rise to power. We married in 1796, and though our relationship was passionate, it was also complicated. Joséphine was a bit older than me and, well, she wasn’t always faithful. Still, I loved her deeply, but the marriage didn’t produce any children. As much as I cared for her, I needed an heir, so in 1810, we divorced, though I made sure she kept the title of Empress.
My second marriage was more of a political arrangement. In 1810, I married Marie-Louise of Austria, a member of the Habsburg family. This marriage was designed to solidify my alliances with Austria, one of Europe’s major powers. Marie-Louise and I had a son, Napoleon II, who I hoped would carry on my legacy, though fate had other plans. While I respected Marie-Louise, the relationship wasn’t as emotionally charged as it had been with Joséphine.
So, yes, I was married twice—once for love, and once for politics. Both marriages shaped my personal and political life in very different ways.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, let's talk religion. What were your religious beliefs? I noticed, in particular, you mentioned that maybe with glee, you were pleased to say that you didn't need a Pope to put a crown on your head.
Ah, religion—now that’s an interesting topic when it comes to me, Ron. I was raised Catholic, like most people in Corsica, and I understood the importance of religion in shaping societies, but my personal beliefs? I was always more of a pragmatist when it came to faith.
I didn’t see myself as particularly devout. I viewed religion as a tool of social cohesion and order. People needed faith to give them moral guidance and a sense of belonging, and I respected that. However, my relationship with the Church, particularly the Pope, was more political than spiritual. I wasn’t against religion, but I certainly didn’t let it dictate my actions or rule.
My crowning as Emperor, as you mentioned—well, I didn’t need the Pope to grant me legitimacy. I took that for myself, because I believed power came from one’s own abilities, not divine right.
That said, I wasn’t an atheist. I recognized the existence of a higher power, but I was skeptical of organized religion’s role in politics. I famously said, “Religion is excellent stuff for keeping common people quiet,” which sums up my approach: useful for maintaining social order, but not something I felt bound to personally.
In short, my religious beliefs were practical. I believed in God, but I didn’t let religion interfere with my goals. I respected it for its influence, but I also kept it firmly under my control when it came to governing. Faith was fine for others, but for me? Ambition and reason were my guiding stars.
Ron Stauffer: Hmm, that makes sense. Who before you was an inspirational figure? Were there inspirational figures in a positive sense? I'm almost wondering, through this conversation, you've basically told me that it sounds like almost everything you did was out of a rejection of monarchy. So, were there inspirational figures that you saw in a positive way, or were you mostly inspired by looking at monarchs and the divine right of kings and saying, “Enough of that?”
Ah, that’s a perceptive question, Ron. I was certainly driven, in large part, by a rejection of the old monarchies and their divine-right thinking, but there were indeed figures who inspired me, both in a positive and negative sense. My ambition wasn’t born solely out of opposition; I was shaped by examples of both success and failure from history.
One of my greatest inspirations was Julius Caesar. He represented a figure who, like me, rose through military brilliance and political acumen to reshape an empire. Caesar rejected the old Roman Republic’s stagnation and took power into his own hands. His ambition, military genius, and vision of a unified Rome greatly influenced how I saw myself and my role in transforming Europe. Of course, I was keenly aware of how he met his end, betrayed by those around him. It was a reminder that ambition must be balanced with caution, even though I sometimes ignored that lesson.
Then there was Alexander the Great—a man who conquered vast territories and dreamed of blending cultures into one unified empire. He showed me what was possible when someone with vision, charisma, and military prowess took bold action. His ability to sweep across the known world, uniting East and West, was something I admired greatly.
On the other hand, yes, I was driven by frustration with the monarchs of Europe—their complacency, their reliance on birthright, and their resistance to change. Louis XVI’s failure to reform France before the Revolution, for instance, was a clear example of what happens when a ruler is too rigid and disconnected from the people. The monarchs around me were clinging to outdated systems, and I saw an opportunity to create something new—something where merit, not lineage, determined power.
In essence, I was inspired by great conquerors and leaders who shaped history through their own abilities—Caesar, Alexander, and even Charlemagne to some extent. But I was also fueled by a rejection of the status quo that monarchs represented. I wanted to be like Caesar and Alexander, yes, but in a world where monarchy no longer ruled unchallenged. My path was about breaking those chains and forging a new order, where power was earned, not inherited.
Ron Stauffer: Well, it's very interesting that you mentioned Julius Caesar, because at least here in the 21st century in America, we typically think of Julius Caesar as the one who took the Roman Republic and destroyed it and turned it into an empire, which we would look at and say, that was a really bad thing.
Did you look at that and say, yes, I want to do the same thing, or do you feel he lost his way, or what are your thoughts on that? And after answering that, you mentioned his betrayal, and I wonder, do you feel like you were betrayed?
Ah, Julius Caesar’s legacy is indeed complex, Ron, and I can understand how, from your perspective in the 21st century, you might see his destruction of the Roman Republic as a negative thing. But from where I stood, Caesar wasn’t just dismantling an old system—he was reforming something that had grown corrupt and inefficient. The Roman Republic had become bogged down by infighting, stagnation, and a system that favored only the elite few. Caesar, to me, was a man who saw the potential for a greater Rome, unified under strong leadership, and he acted on that vision.
Now, did he destroy the Republic? Yes, but he did so to create something more functional, something that could adapt to Rome’s vast empire. To me, that wasn’t the end of liberty or governance—it was the start of something more efficient and enduring, though, of course, he paid the ultimate price for it. In many ways, I saw myself in a similar light.
The French Revolution had brought chaos, and I believed that a republic alone couldn’t maintain order and progress. My empire, like Caesar’s, was meant to bring stability, but I didn’t see it as a betrayal of liberty. Rather, I thought I was saving the Revolution’s ideals from collapse.
As for Caesar losing his way—perhaps in the sense that his ambition ultimately outpaced his ability to secure lasting loyalty. He did cross lines that alienated key supporters, and it led to his downfall. I tried to learn from that, though in the end, ambition is a powerful force, and it’s easy to go too far when you believe you are reshaping history.
Now, about betrayal—ah, yes, I felt it keenly. Especially in my final days. The coalitions that formed against me were filled with men who once stood beside me, or who I had spared, even trusted. Some of my generals, like Michel Ney, who had sworn loyalty, turned against me when it became convenient. After I was forced into exile, many of those who had once benefited from my rule quickly distanced themselves. In my darkest moments, especially after the disastrous Russian campaign, I saw treachery all around me.
So, yes, like Caesar, I felt the sting of betrayal. Those who had once rallied around me, who had shared in the glory, abandoned me when the tides turned. It’s a bitter reality of power, Ron—loyalty is often tied to success, and when the victories stop, so too does the devotion. In the end, betrayal is an inevitable part of leadership, especially for men like Caesar and myself, who dared to reshape the world.
Ron Stauffer: Alright, talking about betrayal. You were exiled at least twice as far as I know. Once on Elba, and then once, finally, on Saint Helena, or however you say that, Saint Helena. Talk about that. What did that feel like when you were exiled in Elba, and then once again when you were in Saint Helena, and what were you thinking about? And both times did you think, this is the end?
Ah, exile—now that’s a subject that cuts deep, Ron. You’re right, I was exiled twice, and the experiences were vastly different. Let me start with Elba.
When I was first exiled to Elba in 1814, after the fall of Paris, it felt surreal. Imagine being the Emperor of Europe, commanding armies, reshaping the continent, and then suddenly being confined to a small Mediterranean island, ruling over just a few thousand people. At first, I didn’t think it was the end. In fact, I still had hope. Elba wasn’t far from France, and I knew my presence, my legacy, still had influence. I busied myself with small reforms on the island, as if to keep my mind sharp and my leadership intact, even in miniature.
But as time went on, I grew restless. I watched from afar as Louis XVIII took the throne, and I knew the French people weren’t happy under the restored monarchy. That’s when the thought began to take root: I wasn’t finished yet. The Hundred Days—that moment when I escaped Elba, returned to France, and was greeted by cheering crowds—was proof that I still had something left in me. For a brief moment, it seemed like the world was mine again. But then, of course, came Waterloo.
After Waterloo, there was no coming back. When I was sent to Saint Helena in 1815, that was a different kind of exile altogether. The British made sure it was far—remote, isolated in the South Atlantic, a prison that no one could escape from. Saint Helena felt like the true end. I was surrounded by ocean, cut off from the world I once ruled, with no hope of return. My power, my empire, even my ambitions—everything was behind me.
On Elba, I still believed I could shape my destiny. But on Saint Helena, I knew the game was over. I spent my days reflecting on my rise, my conquests, my mistakes. There was bitterness, certainly, but also a sense of resignation. I thought about what I had achieved and what I had lost. The glory, the empire—it all seemed distant, like another lifetime. I wrote my memoirs, dictating to my companions, trying to preserve my version of history.
In Saint Helena, I had time to think about how I would be remembered. I thought about Caesar, Alexander, and all the great figures of history. I hoped my legacy would endure, that future generations would understand what I had tried to build. But the isolation was brutal. It was a slow, quiet fading away, with nothing but memories and regrets to keep me company.
In the end, on Saint Helena, I knew it was truly over. There would be no third comeback, no more armies, no more empires. Just the vast ocean and the realization that even the greatest figures must, eventually, face their final defeat.
Ron Stauffer: Wow, that's really sad. This might be offensive, but I just wonder why did your opponents not execute you? Why did they exile you to a tiny little island out in the middle of nowhere? I mean, wasn't there the potential that somebody could come rescue you at some point? Why didn't they just kill you when they got the chance?
Ah, Ron, that’s not offensive at all—it’s a fair question. And believe me, I’ve wondered the same myself. Why not just execute me?
Well, I think my opponents feared the consequences of making a martyr out of me. Killing me outright could have sparked even more unrest in France and across Europe. After all, I still had a lot of support from soldiers, citizens, and those who believed in the principles I championed. An execution could have ignited revolts and fueled a legend that would have made me even more dangerous in death than I was in life.
Exile, on the other hand, was a way to neutralize me without creating immediate chaos. By sending me away—first to Elba, and then, when that didn’t work, to Saint Helena—they could contain me, both physically and symbolically. They stripped me of my power but kept me alive, a kind of living relic of a bygone era. They hoped, I think, that by putting me on a remote island, I would fade from people’s minds, especially in a place like Saint Helena, which was so isolated that even my most ardent supporters couldn’t realistically rescue me.
In Elba, of course, I managed to escape because it was relatively close to France, and there were enough sympathizers to help me make my comeback. But Saint Helena? That was a different story. It was so far removed—thousands of miles from Europe—that rescue was virtually impossible. The British stationed a sizable garrison there, along with constant naval patrols. They made sure that this time, there would be no return.
So why not kill me? They calculated that keeping me alive, but exiled and forgotten, was a safer route than making me a martyr. In the end, they didn’t want to turn me into a symbol that could inspire more revolutions or unrest. Exile was the more cautious, controlled option. But I’ll admit, it was a strange kind of half-measure—leaving me alive, yet powerless, to watch my legacy fade from the sidelines.
Ron Stauffer: Well, okay, here's a tough question for you. You're sitting there in Saint Helena and watching boats come and go, British soldiers, and you're sitting, I don't know, on a porch of a tiny little house all by yourself. You got to ask yourself, I'm sure, was it all worth it?
What was your conclusion to that? Was it all worth it? Was all that you did in your life, when you sat there alone by yourself, on a porch, in exile, on a tiny little house, on an island, out in the middle of the ocean, did you feel it was all worth it?
Ah, Ron, that is the question, isn’t it? Sitting there on Saint Helena, staring at the endless ocean, I had a lot of time to think about that very thing. The battles, the victories, the empires won and lost—it all felt so distant, like echoes of another life. And yes, I did ask myself, was it all worth it?
It’s hard to give you a simple answer. On one hand, the glory, the sheer scale of what I accomplished, the fact that a man from a small island like Corsica could rise to reshape the entire continent—that, in itself, was something extraordinary. I gave France stability after the Revolution, I spread the Napoleonic Code, which brought fairness and justice to many parts of Europe, and I proved that power didn’t have to be tied to aristocracy or divine right. On those counts, I felt it was worth it. I did what I set out to do—leave my mark on history.
But then... there were the costs. The millions of lives lost in the wars I waged. The families torn apart, the countries devastated. When you’re in the midst of power, it’s easy to see it all as part of the greater good, part of shaping the future. But when you’re alone, in exile, with no empire left to command, those human costs weigh heavier. You begin to wonder—did I push too far? Was my ambition too great? Could I have stopped earlier, consolidated what I had, and spared so much suffering?
In my final days, I think I came to accept that my ambition was both my greatest strength and my greatest flaw. I wanted to reshape the world, and in many ways, I did. But in reaching for more and more, I eventually overreached. The invasion of Russia, Waterloo—these were moments where I could have chosen differently, but I didn’t. And that’s the burden I carried with me on Saint Helena.
So, was it worth it? In many ways, yes. But would I do it all the same if given the chance to relive it? That’s harder to say. The legacy I left behind, the ideas I fought for, those will endure. But I can’t deny the price that was paid for them—both by me and by countless others. In the end, greatness comes with a heavy toll, and sitting there on that porch, I had to reckon with both the triumphs and the tragedies of my life.
Ron Stauffer: You mentioned your son, Napoleon II. How did that turn out?
Ah, my son, Napoleon II—the King of Rome, as he was titled. His story is a tragic one, Ron, and it’s one of my deepest regrets. I had such high hopes for him, believing that he would continue my legacy and perhaps one day restore the Napoleonic dynasty. But things didn’t turn out as I had planned.
After my defeat and exile to Saint Helena, Napoleon II’s fate was largely out of my hands. He was only a boy when I was sent away, and after I fell from power, he was essentially taken from me and raised in Austria by his mother, Marie-Louise, and under the watchful eye of the Habsburgs, who were, of course, no friends of mine. They gave him the title “Duke of Reichstadt,” and he was brought up in the Austrian court, far removed from France and any real power.
The Austrians, particularly his grandfather, Emperor Francis I, kept him isolated, ensuring that he could never be a rallying point for Bonapartist supporters. He was raised more like a Habsburg prince than as the heir to the Napoleonic Empire. And while he was reportedly bright and showed some of my military inclinations, he never had the chance to rule or even claim his place in history. He was kept under strict control, a pawn in the broader European game of politics.
Sadly, he died young—at just 21 years old, from tuberculosis, in 1832. He never had the opportunity to fulfill the role I had envisioned for him. His life was one of unrealized potential, trapped between the legacy of his name and the political realities that surrounded him. His death marked the end of any immediate hope for a Napoleonic restoration through bloodline.
I often thought about him during my exile. While I was battling on Saint Helena with the memory of my empire, he was fighting his own battles, isolated and powerless in Vienna. It’s one of those personal tragedies, knowing that the son I hoped would carry forward my vision never had the chance to step out of the shadow of history and forge his own path.
Ron Stauffer: That's a shame. That's really sad.
Okay, on a happier note, and this has been a really delightful conversation, by the way. Thank you for sharing a lot of your thoughts and successes and failures so openly with me. I appreciate that. So here's my final question: what is your enduring legacy today?
Here it is again. Here we are in the 21st century. You're sitting across from me. We're talking about what you did during your lifetime. And yet, even though maybe it wasn't exactly what you wanted to accomplish, not everything at least, what are some of the enduring legacies that someone like me can see today, right now? Where can we see the fingerprints of Napoleon in America and in Europe in the 21st century?
Ah, Ron, it’s been a pleasure speaking with you as well—quite a conversation, indeed! Now, when we talk about enduring legacies, I’d say that while my empire has long since fallen, my influence still lingers in many aspects of the modern world, and not just in Europe, but even across the Atlantic.
One of the most tangible legacies is the Napoleonic Code, or Code Civil, which I introduced in 1804. It was a comprehensive set of laws that prioritized clarity, equality before the law, and the protection of property rights. It swept away the complex and often unjust feudal laws that had governed Europe for centuries. The Code Civil didn’t just shape France—it influenced legal systems across the world. Many countries, especially in Europe and Latin America, modeled their legal codes on it. In the U.S., while your legal system is based on English common law, states like Louisiana still operate under a civil law system heavily influenced by the Napoleonic Code. So, when you see modern legal systems focused on rational, clear, and equitable laws, you’re seeing a bit of my legacy.
Then there’s the concept of meritocracy, something I believed in deeply. The idea that people should rise based on their talent and effort, not birth or privilege, is something that’s central to modern democracies and economies. I reformed education in France, creating institutions like the Lycées and Grandes Écoles, which were open to the brightest students, regardless of background. These reforms helped shape a system where merit, not aristocratic connections, determined success. In many ways, this idea has permeated global thought, especially in places like the U.S., where the “American Dream” is built on the notion that anyone can rise to greatness through hard work.
Another lasting legacy is the idea of nationalism and the modern state. During my reign, I reshaped Europe’s borders and stirred national identities, both for better and for worse. Many of the nationalist movements that would later unify countries like Germany and Italy can trace their roots back to my conquests and the reorganization of Europe. Though nationalism has had its dark side, it also fostered a sense of collective identity that helped form the nation-states we know today.
In terms of military strategy, my campaigns are still studied in military academies worldwide. The strategies I employed—such as the rapid mobilization of forces, the emphasis on speed and decisive action, and my understanding of logistics—revolutionized modern warfare. Concepts like the corps system and the importance of flexibility on the battlefield are hallmarks of my military thinking and are still relevant to commanders today.
And finally, in a broader cultural sense, my life, my rise, and fall—the sheer scope of my ambition—has inspired countless works of art, literature, and even political thought. I’ve become a symbol, for better or worse, of ambition, leadership, and the consequences of overreaching. People today still debate what it means to be a great leader, and my name inevitably comes up in those conversations.
So, while I may have met my end in exile, the ideas I championed—merit, legal reform, the concept of the modern state, and even the way leaders and generals think about power and ambition—still echo in today’s world. My fingerprints, as you say, are there, in both visible and subtle ways. And for that, I suppose, history has granted me the immortality I sought, even if in a different form than I once imagined.
Ron Stauffer: That's amazing. And I'm embarrassed to say this because I said that was my last question, but I thought of another one. As you were talking there, you sound so much like the American President Andrew Jackson. Have you thought about that? I mean, my goodness, it almost seems like Andrew Jackson was America's Napoleon.
Ah, Ron, no need to be embarrassed—I'm quite enjoying this conversation! And your comparison to Andrew Jackson is an interesting one. I can see why you’d make the connection. Both Jackson and I were, in many ways, self-made men, rising from relatively humble beginnings to reshape the course of our nations. We were both military leaders first, turning our battlefield successes into political power. And, perhaps most strikingly, we both had a reputation for being strong-willed, decisive, and not afraid to challenge the established order.
Jackson, like me, embodied a sort of populist spirit. He positioned himself as a man of the people, a defender of the common citizen against entrenched elites. In that sense, we both challenged the status quo—though, of course, in different contexts. I sought to sweep away the old European monarchies and feudal structures, while Jackson took on the American political elite and the Bank of the United States, which he saw as a tool of the wealthy.
We also both had a certain... let’s say, reputation for ruthlessness. Jackson was known for being fierce, even brutal, in his policies—particularly toward Native Americans with the forced relocation and the Trail of Tears. In my case, I didn’t hesitate to use force when I believed it was necessary for my goals, whether in battle or in consolidating power. We both believed in strong leadership, and neither of us shied away from the use of force to achieve what we believed was the greater good.
That said, I think there’s a key difference in our visions. Jackson was firmly rooted in American democracy, and despite his sometimes autocratic tendencies, he didn’t try to overturn the system—he operated within it, albeit with a heavy hand. My ambitions, on the other hand, were more imperial. I wasn’t just trying to operate within France’s system; I sought to reshape all of Europe. I crowned myself Emperor and aimed to create a legacy that transcended republics and democracies.
But yes, in terms of personality, leadership style, and how we both transformed our nations through sheer force of will, I can see the parallels. Jackson was certainly a force to be reckoned with in American history, much like I was in Europe. If you’re calling him "America’s Napoleon," I’d say that’s quite an apt comparison!
Ron Stauffer: All right, some closing thoughts. Can you give us some inspirational quotes or final words of wisdom direct from the mouth of Napoleon? What are some things that you want us in America in the 21st century to remember about you, specifically in things that you may have said?
I’ll leave you with a few words that capture the essence of my thinking, the kind of wisdom I hope you and others might still find useful in the 21st century.
One that has guided my life is this: "Impossible is a word to be found only in the dictionary of fools." This speaks to my belief in the power of ambition and determination. Many times, the challenges ahead seemed insurmountable, but I never allowed the idea of "impossible" to dictate my actions. In your own lives, I’d urge you to push beyond limits, especially those others try to impose on you.
Another is: "Courage isn’t having the strength to go on; it is going on when you don’t have strength." This reflects the resilience I had to draw on in the darkest moments of my life, and I think it’s something that applies universally. Whether in war, in personal struggles, or in facing life’s adversities, courage is about continuing forward when everything tells you to stop.
One more for you: "A leader is a dealer in hope." I understood that as a leader, I was more than just a commander—I had to inspire, to give people hope, even in the most dire situations. That’s something I believe applies to leaders of any kind, whether you’re leading a country, a business, or even just your family. It’s not just about decisions or orders; it’s about lifting others up when they need it most.
And finally, a reflection on history: "History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon." This is a reminder that the way we understand the past is often shaped by the narratives we choose to accept. My legacy, like that of many others, is viewed differently depending on perspective. What matters is that history is not fixed—it’s constantly evolving based on how we interpret it. You, in your time, are shaping tomorrow’s history, so be aware of the stories you contribute to and the impact your actions will have.
Ron Stauffer: Thank you very much. This has been a delightful conversation. I really appreciate talking to you.
The pleasure was all mine, Ron. It’s been a truly engaging and thoughtful conversation. Thank you for the opportunity to share my story with you! Until next time—à bientôt, my friend!
All right, well, there you have it, folks. A conversation with Napoleon Bonaparte, the Emperor of the French.
Ah, what an interesting exercise. I'm not even sure what to say. I'm going to have to think about that for a few days. I almost felt—it's weird. I was preparing for this for a couple of days, but now, I don't know, 30, 40 minutes later, after starting to have this conversation with an artificial intelligence Napoleon, I feel emotional, strangely emotional.
I felt like I didn't want to offend him. I didn't want to ask questions like, how did you die? Because that would have been rude. And I found myself apologizing multiple times in my questions that I did ask, because that's what we do with real people. You ask questions, and sometimes as a good journalist, you ask hard questions that people don't want to answer.
So you can't always be polite and caring about your subject's feelings. But this is a fireside chat.
It's friendly. I'm sitting here in my den, smoking a cigar and drinking cognac. And I don't know if you noticed that, our AI-enabled Napoleon, the Frenchman, couldn't even pronounce cognac. I thought that was funny.
I hope you found this to be an interesting episode of Zombie History. Many thanks to Napoleon for spending time with me this evening. It’s been fun and enlightening.
Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with. Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave.
This is Zombie History.
“BRINGING HISTORY BACK TO LIFE”
For more information about the show, visit zombiehistory.com.
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