I had never heard of this author (pronounced, I believe "s'an encore") until I learned about him along with many other forgotten talents (at least in America) in H.G. Schenk's _The Mind of the European Romantics_. Finding this work in English translation can be difficult and expensive. I found one translation by A.E. Waite which seemed overly verbose and ponderous as compared to the version I finally settled on which was a slightly later translation by J.A. Barnes. This long work, sometimes published in two volumes, is comprised of ninety letters from Obermann, a restless and hyperconscious melancholiac, to his friend. There is little or no plot; instead the letters are filled with philosophical observations, morbid introspection, and near-mystical descriptions of nature. The lack of plot, the length of the letters and the book as a whole, and the tedium of reading about one man's all pervasive depression and despair can make for a long and slow reading experience (even for someone who generally delights in such things). As in Goethe's Werther, I sometimes wonder how the friend receiving these letters reacts to the continuous self-absorbed moping and tortured analysis of the writer, who is alternately crying out in despair and yet always ignoring the friend's advice ("oh crap, it's another letter from that whiny Obermann; it's getting to the point where I'm afraid to open my mailbox . . .") However, Senancour, speaking through Obermann, can often, in an instant, reveal dark inner truths about life and existence that cut very close to the bone and which a like-minded reader will certainly relate to. In fact, he reminds me of Schopenhauer, and seems to anticipate much of his thought. Technically, I think Senancour wrote his works before the actual Romantic period, but with their penetrating psychological insights, emotive style, and enchantment with the natural world, they served to inspire many later romantics as well as writers such as Mathew Arnold and Proust. Senancour's work was never appreciated in his lifetime, and while there was a period where he was rediscovered and read, he has again been forgotten. Perhaps it is time for a fresh, newly translated edition of this fine work?