A partisan to the picaresque and pastiche—not for fans of simple sentences.
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. Inspired by the satire, romance, adventure, and absurdity of works such as "Tom Jones", "Count of Monte Cristo", "Female Quixote", "Sense & Sensibility" he puts pen to paper, to scribble away and hope that something worthwhile comes out at the end.
So, if you fancy, for example, 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.
