Having previously only read Hoffmann’s The Sandman on an internet pdf (which I never enjoy reading on) I was over thrilled to receive the Penguin classics Tales of Hoffmann for Christmas 2025. At last, I have finished all ~400 pages of tales in the collection and can confirm that E.T.A. Hoffmann is (a) both the greatest author of Gothic fiction I have discovered so far and (b) desperately needs recognition as one of the greatest writers of the entire 19th century and beyond. Hoffmann’s prose ranges from Poe’s style of belles lettres to Shakespearean and (to use my favorite word when describing overpoweringly amazing writing) I was left staggered several times by the end of many stories. That is not to say, however, that I was constantly blown away with every story, and so I think it best to take each story cover-to-cover individually, and give each one a proper review, rather than tackle the greatness of all of them combined.

     First in the collection, Hoffmann’s Mademoiselle de Scudery is most likely his weakest story out of all of them. To start with its flaws (and thankfully, it is not nearly all flaws) the prose itself is bland, rushed, and inartistic and the pace of the story resembles The Da Vinci Code in its rapidity than any other 19th century Gothic tale I have read. However, a large part of me wishes to blame the translator for this decision. In the introduction, written by one of the many translators to these tales, this translator claims that Hoffmann’s tales lose their original excitement due to the norms of the 21st century, and so he has attempted to find a balance between making them feel more modern and keeping them as they are. While I have never noticed this choice in any story beyond Mademoiselle de Scudery, I, frankly, hate this decision. Hoffmann is much more than a sleazy ringleader of mindless entertainment value, beribboned in forgettable dialogue, vapid characters, and unadorned plot-gimcrackery, all forgotten by the time you pick up your phone again. Hoffmann considered himself an artist as well as a writer paying the bills through his work (like most great authors of the 19th century!), and therefore damning his writing to the level of airport bookshelf reading is despicable. Thankfully, Mademoiselle de Scudery does nonetheless have some great moments. 

     First, the setting and the atmosphere of the story is incredible. And by atmosphere, I mean, alongside just the physical setting, or, descriptions of Paris, the feelings that associate said location. Reading the long descriptions of Paris’ crime near the beginning, how everyone in the city could no longer trust their closest ally due to so much poisoning and murder, how killers stalk every befogged nook and inumbrated arch of the Gothic City of Lights, just waiting to pounce out at you, is what sells the story in my eyes. 

     Additionally, the detective story itself is very fun to read, even if the characters are irredeemably bland. And Hoffmann’s Dark-Romanticist imagination is the strongest of its kind, far superior to Edgar Allan Poe’s (and his stories’ imagination is his only major selling point). Hoffmann’s imaginative powers, and now I mean for all these stories, is truly something greater than the inner-workings of all Poes or Lovecrafts, or any other Gothic author you can imagine. In fact, it is far superior to every author I can think of besides the Bible, Dante, Shakespeare, Ovid, and Homer. This power of mythopoeitca stems primarily from Hoffmann’s freakishly good writing (in every story besides de Scudery) and also the fairy tale-like worlds themselves. Combining these two elements, Hoffmann’s stories bear an identity not alike to the Bible or Homer, which are dusty, cornerstone texts, but rather to the tradition of Dante, Shakespeare, and Ovid. What I mean by that is Hoffmann already has a cornerstone to write from, as both Gothic fiction  and German fairy tales have existed for a long time now. Therefore, he is able to innovate from that rigid base-layer and create his own powerful world from it conjoined with amazing prose. One reads the Israels wandering through the desert in Exodus and feels a sense of sublimity tempered by alienation through its age, letting one appreciate the work as an artifact; one reads Lear’s monologuing wandering through the storm and meets untempered sublime power that speaks directly to the heart, built up by the strength of belief in this fictitious world, from preexisting foundation and the author’s confidence in his own writing. Thus is the power of Hoffmann. 

     But I have digressed far too much so early on from my ideal template of reviewing story-by-story. However, the next story is The Sandman, which I have already covered in a blog post explaining why it is my favorite short story ever. Essentially, Hoffmann’s The Sandman is a fever-dream, a paralyzing nightmare, and an uncanny emotion more than it is a cohesive narrative with plot, an arc, and characters. The actual, grounded plot of the story itself is forever unclear because there was never meant to be a “grounded” plot. The greatness of The Sandman lies in the emotional, psychological, and aesthetic responses a reader has to the nightmarish effect, i.e. how long it lingers in their headspaces for, how long its modernistically inexplicable story leaves them mulling over specific pages, paragraphs, sentences—lines Hoffmann writes as cooly as describing a frown or a “he said” that makes the narrative all the more untrustworthy and mesmerising. The Sandman is the tale of the protagonist, Nathaniel, and his fears of dark forces controlling his narrative made manifest through the shadowy control of Hoffmann’s art. I don’t have much more to say about The Sandman in terms of plot, especially if you have not read it already, but even if you have read it all ready, what I would really recommend is to let the story linger with you as much as possible and not let other interpretations taint your own. The Sandman is just that good. 

     Moving on, The Artushof was a very lovely tale to read. It follows a banker in a town named after King Arthur, but with all the magic and fantasy of a stockbroker’s office. That is until our protagonist sees a painting that distracts him in his thoughts so deeply that he can no longer focus on his work and begins chasing a forever evanescent high of artistic greatness. On this journey, he becomes obsessed with marrying a woman closely tied to the painting he sees despite the wishes of her father not to get her married, since he received a prophecy that when she does marry, he will die. Our protagonist then follows her around from place to place, meeting another woman in Spain, whom he leaves to keep continuing his fleeting dreams of romance and love with the original woman. At last he learns that he is too late and that she has married another man, her father has died, and she has children now. However, instead of dying with hysteric, 19th-century Romanticist woe, our protagonist feels himself clear-sighted at last that the dream he’s chasing is something greater than his life that he needs to stop sacrificing his time on earth for to enjoy, and he goes back to marry the woman he found on his travels before. I love the message of this story, and the writing of it, and would rank it highly on the list of Hoffmann tales.

     Councillor Krespel is a fine story, not bad by any means, but not mind-blowing. The story follows a man who learns of the eccentric Councillor Krespel and of a mystery about his daughter, who our narrator falls in love with and fears that Krespel is mistreating. However, after some mystery work, the daughter dies and Krespel gives a story-ending explanation. His daughter had a strange disease where if she ever sang too much she would grow sick and die, but singing is what makes her happy and her voice is more beautiful than any other human alive. At last, attempting to keep music and singing out of her life, Krespel finds his daughter singing and she dies. It is a tragic story and a wonderful example of Dark Romanticism. Nevertheless, it is a story I had some difficulty pulling myself into to the same extent as some others. 

     The Entail, much unlike all other stories, is a multi-generational saga. To be completely honest, I have forgotten most of the ins and outs of the plot because, frankly, there is so much to keep track of in those 60-100 or so pages. I really liked the beginning narrative, however, before the saga really begins. In the beginning, a young man accompanies his father to a decrepit, seaside mansion (the titular entail) where the Baron Roderich lives with his wife. Note, Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher, which is in my opinion his second best story behind The Tell-Tale Heart is directly inspired by this Hoffmann tale, down to the decrepit seaside manor, its master Roderick, and a mysterious and sickly female he lives with. The narrator quickly falls in love with the Baroness, and reading about his conflicted heart and intense emotions is truly delightful. However, after this short segment, we get a long speech relating the history and ghostly mysteries of the Entail’s past owners, which is very abstruse and long-winded. Overall, however, The Entail is quite a good story with a very good progeny through Poe, and I would still recommend it. 

     Doge and Dogaressa is a delight. An interwoven Italian tale told by a speaker about a real painting, following the titular Doge and Dogaressa, along with a young man named Antonio, and a tragic but fitting denouement. It is perfectly Romantic, not all too dark by any means, and very fairy tale-esque, all of which Hoffmann pulls off with extreme dexterity. I would highly recommend Doge and Dogaressa and would put it as a top 5 Hoffmann story in this collection. 

     A top 3 Hoffmann story in this collection would have to be The Mines at Falun. Here, Hoffmann’s prose really shines. Reading the descriptions of the mines’ gems flowering like blossoms in the hell-mouth abyss is perfectly Shakespearean even in the translation, and, whether you have read it or not, I would highly recommend rereading specific passages to get the atmospheric imagery out of them again. 

     Finally, The Choosing of the Bride (probably my second favorite tale in this collection) is perhaps the most Kafkaesque tale I have ever read not written by Kafka. It follows three suitors to a young bride, a stingy father, and a magical Puck-like spirit who interferes with all of them. Every single character in this book is absolutely wonderful, especially Chancellor Private Secretary Tusmann. Tusmann is described as an old, gangly encyclopedia of a man, always carrying and reading a book, and someone who has to justify all of his actions and claims as “well so-and-so said…” When Tusmann tries to marry the titular bride, another suitor uses a favor from a magical spirit to torment Tusmann for a night until he refuses to wed the bride. Tusmann’s magical torment is so entertaining to read and so freakishly bizarre, that I can imagine no author writing it besides Hoffmann and Kafka, hence why this story feels so Kafkaesque to me. Without spoiling too much, I would highly recommend The Choosing of the Bride, along with The Sandman, The Mines at Falun, and The Doge and the Dogaressa. With that being said, I recognize that this is a longer book review than normal, and so I will end it on this note: Hoffmann deserves to be much more well known as a literary master of world fiction, and I implore you to read as much of his stuff as you can. I certainly will be reading his The Devil’s Elixir and The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr, as soon as I can, and hopefully be posting a review on them. Happy reading then, and farewell!