Now November 3th, 1953

Tuesday, Sept. 8, 1953

It is now 10:45 of Monday evening, November 30th, 1953. I had turned my pencil to this paper to write of my latest moving experience but my thoughts were momentarily detoured by the preceding entry. I would so like to complete the telling of our summer's camping trip. But now while my strains are fresh I wish to tell of what has just occurred to me. I have just finished reading Irving Stone's biography of Vincent Van Gogh Lust for Life. I was thrilled more deeply by this book than by any other I have read. I have just been told that some art critic who edited the souvenir booklet of Van Gogh's exhibit at our city Art Museum believes this biography to be a bad one; he believes Stone does not understand the kind of a person V.v.G. was, because the only thing it impresses upon its reader is the madness of v.G. that resulted in his cutting off his ear. All this of course, is not true. This critic undermines his case when he admits he has never read the book.

Mr. Stone calls his book a biographical novel & he explains in a short note at the end of the book that the conversation has necessarily had to be imagined but as a whole work, the book is a true account of V.v.G.'s life & work. I suppose by enjoying this book so much I prove myself to be less than a scholar but I admit without excuse that I thrive on emotion and the trials of those who I feel have contributed something lasting to this world, as I would like to do. Upon completing the first few chapters I was at a loss as to how to accept this Dutchman - I felt neither like nor dislike for him - only an impartial sort of pity. But he became such a real being to me that I imagined I felt every tear in his mind & soul as though it were my own. I was so engrossed in his experiences & progress that I dreaded to finish the pages between me & the book's final paragraph because I knew of the void I would face. When living in a book such as this as I do, I spend every walking, sitting, standing, otherwise moment in which my eyes are not occupied following the pulse of life portrayed. I dreaded the end & yet I could not slow my certain progress. And at the end of this book, I could hardly read of the subsequent death of Theo for the tears that welled in my eyes as I finally read the words that told of Vincent's suicide & his closing moments with his brother at his side.

Regardless of what other may say, I feel I know what kind of a person V.v.G. was, as well as any one else living. It was a wonderful experience, reseeing his exhibit, knowing why he did as he did & how he saw what he painted & realizing that the very lines & strokes I was seeing were the very same lines & strokes Vincent himself put on that very same paper years ago. Despite the huge crowds all about me I felt such a closeness with his spirit. All I could wish was that I could have been able to give him some of the joy that was so alien to his experience. I think I could have loved him & given him the things he so deeply desired. But that is something no man knoweth for had he had such things he might not have produced the very canvases I was drinking in as I thought these thoughts. My heart truly aches as I think of him & yet I know he felt a joy few men ever feel - that knowing what he must do & having the strength & determination to make all else pale beside his desire to paint. Life without his art was not life & so when his art was gone there was no other thing to do but end his life as well.