Lust for life irving stone ebook

 

    Book Source: Digital Library of India Item verswritoutsudnu.gq: Irving verswritoutsudnu.gqioned. Editorial Reviews. Review. “A story of excruciating power.”—The New York Times "Whoever reads Lust for Life will gain all the important facts concerning the life. Lust for life by Stone, Irving, , Pocket Books edition, in English.

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    Lust For Life Irving Stone Ebook

    eBook . Lust for Life is the classic fictional re-telling of the incredible life of Vincent Van Gogh. Irving Stone was born in San Francisco in and received his B. A. from the University of California, Berkeley in Lust for Life. (Download) Lust for Life #kindle By Irving Stone ENJOY UNLIMITED EBOOKS, AUDIOBOOKS, AND MORE! Simply Sign Up to one. Praise. “A story of excruciating power.”—The New York Times “Whoever reads Lust for Life will gain all the important facts concerning the life of the painter a.

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    He felt extremely friendly to them all; they too knew what a splendid thing it was to be in love. As he walked through the main salon, with its thick carpets and rich draperies, he saw a canvas representing a kind of fish or dragon six yards long, with a little man hovering over it.

    The second room of the shop, after one passed the picture salon in which were exhibited the paintings of Millais, Boughton, and Turner, was devoted to etchings and lithographs. It was in the third room, which looked more like a place of business than either of the others, that most of the sales were carried on.

    Vincent laughed as he thought of the woman who had made the last download the evening before. They mostly put the missus in a stew. Most of the people who came in knew absolutely nothing about what they were downloading. They paid high prices for a cheap commodity, but what business was it of his? All he had to do was make the print room successful.

    He opened the package from Goupils in Paris. No need to wait any longer. He sold on an average of fifty photographs a day for the Muse Goupil and Company, and although he would have preferred to deal in oil canvases and etchings, he was pleased to be taking in so much money for the house. He liked his fellow clerks and they liked him; they spent many pleasant hours together talking of things European.

    As a young chap he had been slightly morose and had avoided companionship. People had thought him queer, a bit eccentric.

    Lust for life the novel of Vincent van Gogh, (eBook, ) [verswritoutsudnu.gq]

    But Ursula had changed his nature completely. She had made him want to be agreeable and popular; she had brought him out of himself and helped him to see the goodness in the ordinary pattern of daily life. At six o'clock the store closed. Obach stopped Vincent on his way out. I was happy to tell him that you are one of the best clerks in the store. After your summer vacation I want you to leave the back room and come forward into the etchings and lithographs.

    I'm going to be married! This is news. When is it to take place? You just had an increase the first of the year, but when you come back from your wedding trip I dare say we can manage another. Ursula was wearing a modishly embroidered dress of verdigris faye. If you'll get a lamp I'll hang it in the kindergarten for you. Shall we make it in a half hour? He had rarely thought about his appearance; in Holland such things had not seemed important.

    He had noticed that in comparison to the English his face and head were ponderous. His eyes were buried in deep crevices of horizontal rock; his nose was high ridged, broad and straight as a shinbone; his dome-like forehead was as high as the distance from his thick eyebrows to the sensuous mouth; his jaws were wide and powerful, his neck a bit squat and thick, and his massive chin a living monument to Dutch character.

    He turned away from the mirror and sat idly on the edge of the bed. He had been brought up in an austere home. He had never loved a girl before; he had never even looked at one or engaged in the casual banter between the sexes.

    In his love for Ursula there was nothing of passion or desire. He was young; he was an idealist; he was in love for the first time. He glanced at his watch. Only five minutes had passed. The twenty-five minutes that stretched ahead seemed interminable.

    He drew a note from his brother Theo out of his mother's letter and reread it. Theo and Vincent, like their father Theodorus and Uncle Vincent, had been favourite brothers all through their youth. Vincent picked up a book, rested some paper on it, and wrote Theo a note. From the top drawer of the chiffonier he drew out a few rough sketches that he had made along the Thames Embankment and put them into an envelope for Theo along with a photograph of Young Girl with a Sword, by Jacquet.

    He snatched up a comb, tried to straighten out the tangle of wavy red hair, took Caesar de Cock's picture from the table, and flung open the door. She was pasting together some paper toys for her poupons. May I see it? Did you fix a lamp? He thrilled to the silken touch of it.

    In the garden there was the smell of apple blossoms. The path was dark and Ursula put the ends of her fingers lightly on the sleeve of his rough, black coat. She stumbled once, gripped his arm more tightly and laughed in high glee at her own clumsiness. He did not understand why she thought it funny to trip, but he liked to watch her body carry the laughter down the dark path.

    He held open the door of the kindergarten for her and as she passed, her delicately moulded face almost brushing his, she looked deep into his eyes and seemed to answer his question before he asked it.

    At one end was a little platform supporting Ursula's desk. He and Ursula stood side by side, groping for the right position for the picture. Vincent was nervous; he dropped the pins as fast as he tried to stick them into the wall. She laughed at him in a quiet, intimate tone.

    She was quick in her gestures, and graceful. Vincent wanted to take her in his arms, there in the dim light of the lamp, and settle with one sure embrace this whole tortuous business. But Ursula, though she touched him frequently in the dark, never seemed to get into position for it. He held the lamp up high while she read the inscription. She was pleased, clapped her hands, rocked back on her heels. She moved so much he could never catch up with her. Ursula turned her face to him in the half shadow.

    The gleam from the lamp put tiny spots of light in her eyes. The oval of her face was framed in the darkness and something he could not name moved within him when he saw her red, moist lips stand out from the smooth paleness of her skin.

    There was a meaningful pause. He could feel her reaching out to him, waiting for him to utter the unnecessary words of love. He wetted his lips several times. Ursula turned her head, looked into his eyes over a slightly raised shoulder, and ran out the door. Terror stricken that his opportunity would pass, he pursued her. She stopped for a moment under the apple tree. There were cold stars out. The night was black. He had left the lamp behind him.

    The only light came from the dim glow of the kitchen window. The perfume of Ursula's hair was in his nostrils. She pulled the silk scarf tightly about her shoulders and crossed her arms on her chest. We had better go in. Please, I She lowered her chin into the warmth of the scarf and looked up at him with wide, wondering eyes. You see I'm shivering. I was promoted today I'm going forward into the lithograph room The emotion in him suddenly shut down; he felt calm and possessed. He tried a number of voices in his mind and chose the one he liked best.

    That I love you with all my heart and can only be happy if you will be my wife. He wondered if he ought to take her in his arms.

    Lust for life the novel of Vincent van Gogh,

    I've been engaged for over a year. He had your room before you came. I thought you knew. I only wanted to be friends with you. He's in Wales. He's coming to spend his summer holiday with me. Then you've forgotten him! I'm the one you love now! He tasted the moistness of her lips, the sweetness of her mouth, the perfume of her hair; all the intensity of his love rose up within him.

    I won't let you. You're going to be my wife. I couldn't bear to lose you. I'll never stop until you forget him and marry me!

    Now let go of me, do you hear, or I shall call for help. When she gained the steps she turned and spoke in a low carrying whisper that struck him like a shout. He climbed lethargically out of bed. He shaved around his face in a circular swash, leaving several patches of beard. Ursula did not appear at breakfast. He walked downtown to Goupils. As he passed the same men that he had seen the morning before he noticed that they had altered. They looked like such lonely souls, hurrying away to their futile labours.

    He did not see the laburnums in bloom nor the chestnut trees that lined the road. The sun was shining even more brightly than the morning before. He did not know it. During the day he sold twenty preuves d'artiste in colour of the Venus Anadyomene after Ingres.

    There was a big profit in these pictures for Goupils, but Vincent had lost his sense of delight in making money for the gallery. He had very little patience with the people who came in to download. They not only could not tell the difference between good and bad art, but seemed to have a positive talent for choosing the artificial, the obvious, and the cheap.

    His fellow clerks had never thought him a jolly chap, but he had done his best to make himself pleasant and agreeable.

    The old man is sick and has no children; everyone says he's leaving his half of the business to this chap. Why, the Van Goghs are the greatest family of picture dealers in Europe. One day our red-headed friend in the next room will practically control Continental art! They stopped as soon as he came in, and left a sentence hanging in mid-air. Ursula ran into the kitchen. Vincent ate his dinner alone at the large table.

    Ursula's blow had stunned but not defeated him. He simply was not going to take "no" for an answer. He would crowd the other man out of Ursula's mind. It was almost a week before he could catch her standing still long enough to speak to her. He had eaten and slept very little during that week; his stolidity had given way to nervousness.

    Lust For Life

    His sales at the gallery had dropped off considerably. The greenness had gone from his eyes and left them a pain-shot blue. He had more difficulty than ever in finding words when he wanted to speak. He followed her into the garden after the big Sunday dinner.

    It was of no importance. Let's forget it, shall we? But the things I said were true. She moved away. He hurried after her. Ursula, you don't understand how much I love you! You don't know how unhappy I've been this past week. Why do you keep running away from me? I think Mother is expecting callers. I would have seen it in your eyes if you had.

    When did you say you were going home for your holiday? My fianc is coming to spend his July holiday with me, and we'll need his old room. If you don't, Mother says you can find new lodgings. All his early characteristics returned; if he could not be with Ursula he wanted to be by himself so that no one could interfere with his thinking about her.

    He was unfriendly to the people at the store. The world that had been awakened by Ursula's love went fast asleep again and he became the sombre, morose lad his parents had known in Zundert. July came, and with it his holiday. He did not wish to leave London for two weeks. He had the feeling that Ursula could not love anyone else as long as he was in the house.

    He went down into the parlour. Ursula and her mother were sitting there. They exchanged one of their significant looks. Here is the money for the two weeks that I shall be away.

    We think it better if you live elsewhere. That look made no statement. It only asked a question. I'm afraid, Monsieur Van Gogh, that it would have been better if you had never come here at all. He had on his heavy, black ministerial coat, the wide lapelled vest, starched white shirt, and huge black bow tie covering all but a narrow strip of the high collar. With a quick glance Vincent took in his father's two facial characteristics: the right lid drooped down lower than the left, covering a considerable portion of the eye; the left side of his mouth was a thin, taut line, the right side full and sensuous.

    His eyes were passive; their expression simply said, "This is me. He never understood to the day of his death why he was not more successful. He felt that he should have been called to an important pulpit in Amsterdam or The Hague years before. He was called the handsome dominie by his parishioners, was well educated, of a loving nature, had fine spiritual qualities, and was indefatigable in the service of God. Yet for twenty-five years he had been buried and forgotten in the little village of Zundert.

    He was the only one of the six Van Gogh brothers who had not achieved national importance. The parsonage at Zundert, where Vincent had been born, was a wooden frame building across the road from the market place and stadhuis. There was a garden back of the kitchen with acacias and a number of little paths running through the carefully tended flowers. The church was a tiny wooden building hidden in the trees just behind the garden. There were two small Gothic windows of plain glass on either side, perhaps a dozen hard benches on the wooden floor, and a number of warming pans attached permanently to the planks.

    At the rear there was a stairway leading up to an old hand organ. It was a severe and simple place of worship, dominated by the spirit of Calvin and his reformation. Vincent's mother, Anna Cornelia, was watching from the front window and had the door open before the carriage came to a full stop. Even while taking him with loving tenderness to her ample bosom, she perceived that something was wrong with her boy.

    A faint line from the side of each nostril down to the corners of the mouth deepened with the passage of the years, and the deeper these lines became, the stronger impression they gave of a face slightly lifted in smile. Anna Cornelia was a good woman. She saw no evil in the world and knew of none. She knew only of weakness, temptation, hardship, and pain. Theodorus Van Gogh was also a good man, but he understood evil very thoroughly and condemned every last vestige of it.

    The dining room was the centre of the Van Gogh house, and the big table, after the supper dishes had been cleared off, the centre of family life.

    Here everyone gathered about the friendly oil lamp to pass the evening. Anna Cornelia was worried about Vincent; he was thin, and had become jumpy in his mannerisms. I think he would transfer you to one of the Paris shops.

    Vincent spent his days walking alone in the fields, gazing down into the numerous ponds with which the heath was dotted. The only diversion he enjoyed was drawing; he made a number of sketches of the garden, the Saturday afternoon market seen from the window of the parsonage, the front door of the house.

    It kept his mind off Ursula for moments at a time. Theodorus had always been disappointed that his oldest son had not chosen to follow in his footsteps. They went to visit a sick peasant and when they drove back that evening across the heath the two men got out of the carriage and walked awhile. The sun was setting red behind the pine trees, the evening sky was reflected in the pools, and the heath and yellow sand were full of harmony.

    You could live with Uncle Jan in Amsterdam while you attend the University. And the Reverend Stricker has offered to direct your education. But if you are unhappy there But I have no intention of leaving Goupils. I'm moving. They had too many secrets. His mother laid a warm hand over his and said gently, so that Theodorus might not hear, "Don't be unhappy, my dear.

    You will be better off with a nice Dutch girl, later, later, when you are more established. She would not be good for you, that Ursula girl.

    She is not your kind. His landlady was a little old woman who retired every evening at eight. There was never the faintest sound in the house. Each night he had a fierce battle on his hands; he yearned to run directly to the Loyer's. He would lock the door on himself and swear resolutely that he was going to sleep.

    In a quarter of an hour he would find himself mysteriously on the street, hurrying to Ursula's. When he got within a block of her house he felt himself enter her aura. It was torture to have this feel of her and yet have her so inaccessible; it was a thousand times worse torture to stay in Ivy Cottage and not get within that penumbra of haunting personality. Pain did curious things to him.

    It made him sensitive to the pain of others. It made him intolerant of everything that was cheap and blatantly successful in the world about him. He was no longer of any value at the gallery. When customers asked him what he thought about a particular print he told them in no uncertain terms how horrible it was, and they did not download. The only pictures in which he could find reality and emotional depth were the ones in which the artists had expressed pain.

    In October a stout matron with a high lace collar, a high bosom, a sable coat, and a round velvet hat with a blue plume, came in and asked to be shown some pictures for her new town house. She fell to Vincent. Here are the dimensions; in the drawing room there are two uninterrupted walls of fifty feet, one wall broken by two windows with a space between The woman had a sure instinct for picking out the very worst expression of the painter's art to be found in any group that Vincent showed her.

    She had an equal talent for being able to reject at first sight, and quite peremptorily, everything he knew to be authentic. As the hours passed, the woman, with her pudgy features and condescending puerilities, became for him a perfect symbol of middle- class fatuity and the commercial life.

    Vincent could see the turgid flow of blood creep from her propped-up bosom to her neck under the lace collar. Obach was outraged.

    You've muffed the biggest sale of the week, and insulted that woman! Obach, would you answer me one question? I have a few questions to ask, myself.

    I can't have you ruining my business. And why is it that the only people who can afford to come in here are those who can't bear to look at anything authentic?

    Is it because their money has made them callous? And why is it that the poor people who can really appreciate good art haven't even a farthing to download a print for their walls? Man is not on this earth only to be happy, he is not there to be simply honest, he is there to realize great things for humanity, to attain nobility and to surpass the vulgarity in which the existence of almost all individuals drags on.

    Two nights later as he walked by he saw the house well lighted and neighbours going in the front door. He heard the sound of laughing voices inside. The Loyers were giving their Christmas party.

    Vincent ran home, shaved hurriedly, put on a fresh shirt and tie, and walked back as fast as he could to Clapham. He had to wait several minutes at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath.

    This was Christmas; the spirit of kindliness and forgiveness was in the air. He walked up the stairs. He pounded on the knocker. He heard a familiar footstep come through the hall, a familiar voice call back something to the people in the parlour. The door was opened. The light from the lamp fell on his face. He looked at Ursula. She was wearing a sleeveless green polonaise with large bows and lace cascades. He had never seen her so beautiful. An expression passed over her face that repeated clearly all the things she had said to him in the garden.

    Looking at her, he remembered them. She slammed the door in his face. The following morning he sailed for Holland. Christmas was the busiest season for the Goupil Galleries. Obach wrote to Uncle Vincent, explaining that his nephew had taken a holiday without so much as a "with your leave. Vincent calmly announced that he was through with the art business.

    Uncle Vincent was stunned and deeply hurt. He declared that in the future he would wash his hands of Vincent. After the holidays he stopped washing them long enough to secure his namesake a position as clerk in the bookshop of Bluss and Braam at Dordrecht. It was the very last thing the two Vincent Van Goghs ever had to do with each other.

    He remained at Dordrecht almost four months. He was neither happy nor unhappy, successful nor unsuccessful. He simply was not there. One Saturday night he took the last train from Dordrecht to Oudenbosch and walked home to Zundert.

    It was beautiful on the heath with all the cool, pungent smells of night. Though it was dark he could distinguish the pine woods and moors extending far and wide. It reminded him of the print by Bodmer that hung in his father's study. The sky was overcast but the night stars were shining through the clouds. It was very early when he arrived at the churchyard at Zundert; in the distance he could hear the larks singing in the black fields of young corn.

    His parents understood that he was going through a difficult time. Over the summer the family moved to Etten, a little market town just a few kilometres away, where Theodorus had been named dominie.

    Etten had a large, elm-lined public square and a steam train connecting it with the important city of Breda. For Theodorus it was a slight step up. When early fall came it was necessary once again to make a decision.

    Ursula was not yet married. I can't explain now. Give me a little more time. The specific requirements or preferences of your reviewing publisher, classroom teacher, institution or organization should be applied.

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