Love is always an exceptional literary argument when it does not finish materializing in time, although it does in its essence, that which is burned into memory and ends up transforming the past into an idealized space.
And it is that sometimes love ends up being parked by other circumstances, needs, priorities ... And so many times that moment of repetition, of coincidence, can come, if there can be something of coincidence in rediscovering the look that you captivated at some point and that you rejected for other reasons ...
If love is a coincidence, it is something that is perfectly nuanced in this novel. If the decisions made by the heart are not marking a path towards reunion beyond reason. Fate can be what our hearts write behind our backs, offering us our own book later, as the best gift we can give ourselves.
At other times, love escapes forced by sad circumstances. Madness and war break it all. But even then our heart continues to take note of, when the time comes, no matter how many years have passed, to recognize that look that made him shudder the first time.
In the Prague of the XNUMXs, Josef and Lenka's dreams are shattered by the imminent Nazi invasion. Decades later, thousands of miles apart, in New York, two strangers recognize each other through a glance. Fate gives lovers a new opportunity.
From the comfort and the glamorous from bustling Prague before the occupation, to the horrors of Nazism that seemed to devour the whole of Europe, Lovers of Prague reveals the power of first love, the endurance of the human spirit, and the power of memory.
