Most biographies rarely do justice to their protagonists’ stories–glamourising their flaws, meddling with their perspectives, adding unnecessary depth to their personalities–biased as they can be towards their prized main character. Irving Stone’s Lust for Life doesn’t do that.
I picked up the book as somebody whose knowledge of Vincent Van Gogh was limited to keywords like ‘genius painter’, ‘cut off his own ear’, ‘paintings cost millions’ ‘the artist who ushered in Expressionism’–too ignorant to have known genius isn’t a word but an earned title. It’s easy to assume great artistes are naturally gifted or that the talented don’t lead average lives. Assumptions such as these ruthlessly render meaningless the pains and struggles of famous men. Lust for Life is a stunning revelation of this.
It does what it is supposed to do–tell the story of Vincent Van Gogh. And then it goes on to do more.
Stone’s Lust for Life reads like a painting. The description of every mountain, every river, every gorge, every tree, every colour, every shade is so exact, so clear and so precise that it probably induces the same picture in every reader’s mind. It takes you back to the 19th century, a powerful time of transition in art–from realism to impressionism to post-impressionism. As you turn the pages, you find yourself on the streets of Paris, in the coal mines of Borinage, in the landscapes of Nuenen, in the cottage of the Potato Eaters, under the Starry Night over the Rhone, and in the Wheat field with Cypresses.
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