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Seller Inventory B Book Description Scribe US. Book Description Scribe, Condition: Brand New. In Stock. Book Description Scribe US, Seller Inventory M Never used!. Seller Inventory P Ships with Tracking Number! Buy with confidence, excellent customer service!. Married Life: a novel. David Vogel. Publisher: Scribe US , This specific ISBN edition is currently not available. View all copies of this ISBN edition:.

Synopsis About this title David Vogel has long been regarded as a leading figure of Hebrew literature, and his work has been compared to that of Joseph Roth, Thomas Mann, and Franz Kafka. Buy New View Book.

Married Life

Other Popular Editions of the Same Title. Grove Pr, Hardcover. Halban, Hardcover. Search for all books with this author and title. Customers who bought this item also bought. Stock Image. Married Life: a novel Hardback David Vogel. Published by Scribe Publications, Australia New Hardcover Quantity Available: Seller Rating:.

Married Life Vogel, David. Published by Scribe Publications New Quantity Available: 1. Married Life: a novel David Vogel. Published by Scribe Publications. Married Life: a novel Vogel, David. Published by Scribe US. Mediaoutlet Springfield, VA, U. Married Life David Vogel. The wagons, the cars, the trams, the terrace houses, and the people too — everything shone joyfully in the pristine rays of the sun.

Nursemaids in frilly caps and starched white aprons pushed their carriages with a kind of secret pride, as if the bonny, smiling babies were the fruit of their own wombs.

Married Life, Vogel Collection by David Vogel | | Booktopia

Gurdweill walked along Nordbahnstrasse and then turned into Praterstrasse. The shop windows were so seductive that he felt a pressing desire to go into each and every one of them and buy all kinds of things, whether he needed them or not, to get into conversation with all the shop assistants and joke with them light-heartedly.

And another desire awoke in him too: to stand in the middle of the street and throw a cascade of gold and silver coins at the street urchins, and to rejoice in their happiness. But all this was beyond his powers; all he had in his pocket was one schilling and a few groschen. And so Gurdweill strolled down the broad, bustling Praterstrasse, looking into the eyes of the passers-by with exaggerated friendliness, as if he had some glad tidings to bring to each and every one of them, until he reached Ferdinand's Bridge.

He approached a crowd of people who were clustering at the railing, pushing forward and looking down. I saw her with my own eyes when they pulled her out. Nothing means anything to them: either they kill themselves or they kill each other. Yesterday a man killed his wife in our own building. Stabbed her to death in broad daylight!

She was gone in a second, the poor thing. She never made a sound. Gurdweill pushed his way to the railing, where two policemen could be seen on the embankment below, standing guard over the drowned girl draped in black, and preventing the circle of curious onlookers from coming any closer. Despite the sudden weakness that had flooded him, Gurdweill went down to the embankment and pushed through the crowd until he was close to the dead girl.

Underneath the black cloth, which was not big enough to cover her body, her auburn hair peeped, matted and lifeless, along with a bit of pale-blue forehead, which seemed as hard as granite; and on the other side, the toe of a brown shoe, wet and slimy, which had obviously been in the water for many days.

The swelling under the cloth seemed big enough for two bodies, and the ground around it was soaked with water. Gurdweill could not tear his eyes away from the black-draped lump. His heart pounded violently. In the meantime the hearse arrived and swept the onlookers aside. When they lifted the body, the head of the drowned girl was exposed for a moment. There was a scar on the left cheekbone, but the skin of the scar was no different in colour from the rest of the face.


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The nose seemed excessively long to Gurdweill. Gurdweill roused himself and remembered that he was in a hurry. He glanced once more at the wet ground in front of him and the smooth waters of the Danube reflecting the blue sky and scraps of white clouds, and began climbing the steps with the dispersing crowd. He suddenly felt very tired, as if after back-breaking physical labour. And she immediately added, as if it were a sure remedy against death: 'And now I must hurry home to make dinner for my sons.

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But the beauty of the spring day had been spoiled for Gurdweill. With downcast eyes, his hands stuck in the pockets of his open coat, he walked gloomily along the asphalt pavement by the canal. Within a few minutes he reached the end of Rotenturmstrasse and turned into it. Outside the nearby booksellers, he came to a halt and, without interest, read the names of some of the new books in the window; then he glanced at his watch, saw that it was a quarter past ten, and resolutely entered the shop.

If you would be good enough to wait a few minutes, over here,' and he indicated a chair. This delay was not at all to Gurdweill's liking. He hated waiting more than anything. But he was eager to get the whole thing behind him, and so he sat down on the chair, firmly resolved not to wait for more than fifteen minutes.

There were no customers in the bookshop. From time to time the red-headed assistant climbed a ladder and rummaged busily among the rows of volumes on the shelves, bringing down a pile of books and placing them on the tables below. Next to the entrance, in the cashier's booth, a young woman sat reading. She paid no attention at all to Gurdweill, who was sitting not far from her. In order to pass the time, he tried to read the names of the volumes on the shelves opposite him, on the other side of the long table stacked with books, straining his eyes in the effort.

From outside, the muffled roar of the city reached his ears. Without any obvious connection, he suddenly remembered the wet ground on the banks of the Danube after they had lifted the body of the dead girl, and his heart contracted.


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Sitting here and waiting suddenly seemed completely superfluous and pointless. He placed his squashed brown hat on his knees and began rummaging through his pockets for a cigarette, but found nothing.

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Unthinkingly he turned to look at the young cashier. After a moment the cashier really did become distracted: she passed her hand over her dark-gold hair, cut like a boy's, rubbed her ear, and in the end she turned to Gurdweill and looked at him absent-mindedly. From the expression on her face, it looked as if she were trying to remember something she had forgotten. Then she began reading again. Pleased with his experiment, Gurdweill stood up, as if inspired by a new courage, and informed the assistant that he had no time to wait any longer.

The assistant led him through a narrow passageway, lit by an electric bulb and stacked with boxes reaching to the ceiling on both sides, and, after knocking briefly, ushered him into the owner's office. Dr Kreindel, who was sitting behind a large desk facing the door, jumped up at their entrance as if bitten by a snake.

It was only now, apparently, that Dr Kreindel noticed Gurdweill's presence. After dismissing the assistant with a sweep of his hand, he gave Gurdweill an appraising look and asked him what he wanted, with a trace of his former anger still in his voice. Please sit down. Very good. What does Goethe say: The love of books is a clear sign of You write yourself, if I'm not mistaken?

I was told Never mind, never mind, it doesn't matter in the least. On the contrary, it's even better. Much better. Kleist says: Writers are always I'm sure you know the end of the quotation Gurdweill sat looking at Dr Kreindel's fat face, from which it was hard to tell whether he was speaking seriously or making a joke. The man's sharp little eyes, which lurked under a low brow, were extremely disagreeable to him. An oppressive feeling gave rise to the idea that he would have to spend eight hours a day with this man, day after day, for half a year, a year, and perhaps even longer.

He felt a sudden urge to spit on the whole business and get up and leave immediately.

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But he stayed where he was. He had been out of a job for six months: his sources of loans were running out. He didn't have the courage to reject the possibility of employment out of hand. Dr Kreindel went on. A very interesting subject! I love philosophy; I studied it for three semesters And I'm ashamed to admit that once upon a time I even wrote a book on the link between Kant and Spinoza