Two such towering figures. Two very different men who left the world on their own accord, with words and thick paint remaining in their wake.
I read two books this week, “The Paris Wife” by Paula McLain and “The Last Van Gogh” by Alyson Richman. Both are works of fiction, based on historical fact. Both broke my heart, even though it’s obvious that there would be no happy ending. Well, not the ending a romantic like me would typically prefer. But that’s not how life is, at least when your eyes are too glued to a hardback.
“The Paris Wife” tore at my being in many ways. I certainly won’t compare myself to Hemingway, but I understood his naivety and spirit during these early stages in his career. I understood his longing to be something greater and prolific. Of course, I’ve yet to technically strive toward anything with that much intensity, but I know that what it takes to be substantial is in me. And his first wife Hadley, comforts and encourages him along the way, so bravely and maybe foolishly, only to be tossed aside. It was heartbreaking, maybe because the ending was written before the Hemingway’s could touch the Parisian sidewalk. It was all there, waiting to end this way.
“The Last Van Gogh” is no less tragic, but left a similar feeling of longing. Continue reading