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Among his works are collections of poems in free meter and several novels edited posthumously by Menakhem Perry.

Literary career

His diaries covering the period — were published as The End of the Days. The novel Married Life was written between and The novel has been re-published in Israel in , in a new version edited from the manuscripts by Menakhem Perry,and became a best-seller.

The Hebrew publication is a version prepared by Menakhem Perry, who made a short novel out of hundreds of pages of the Yiddish manuscript. The only book of poems he published in his lifetime was Lifney Hasha'ar Ha'afel "Before the Dark Gate" , in Vienna in , but his poetry was influential with other Hebrew poets in the s. The critic Yael S.

Feldman cites Vogel as an example in which bilingualism affected modern Hebrew poetry. Biography Lists.

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David Vogel — was a Russian-born Hebrew poet, novelist, and diarist. He saw that the windows were already quite pale with the light of the approaching morning, which immediately increased his desire to go back to sleep. And as if he were fleeing from some danger, he quickly turned onto his right side and pulled the quilt over his head. Down below, in Kleine Stadtgutgasse, a heavy wagon trundled past slowly, creaking mercilessly and shaking the windowpanes like an earthquake. Now he would never be able to go back to sleep. The creaking narrowed down to two or three maddeningly monotonous sounds, which went on repeating themselves with an idiotic obstinacy in his drowsy mind, although the wagon was quite far away by now, until it seemed to him that they were coming not from outside but from some corner of his own soul.

In a sudden panic he jumped up and sat on the bed. He glanced around the room, which was not large, and his eyes fell on the sofa to his right, where his friend Ulrich was sleeping with his face turned to the wall. At the sight of his sleeping friend he felt suddenly and inexplicably wide awake. And the memory of what he had to do today came crowding into his mind, together with a feeling of oppression. He still had time to spare and he lay down in bed again, hoping that he might fall asleep for a little while.

But as if to spite him his thoughts went on turning of their own accord around the same unpleasant business, and he could not stop them. The room was filling with the fine, clear morning of an early spring day. Ulrich sat up and said something in a lazy whisper. Gurdweill pretended to be asleep.


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He did not feel like talking to anybody now. Through his half-closed lids he watched his friend dressing with negligent, mechanical movements that for some reason seemed to him jerky, absurd, and disconnected. In the end it became difficult for him to go on lying there.

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He imagined the city streets bathed in the early-spring sunshine, and he wanted to be outside. Impatiently he waited for Ulrich to go to work. But the latter, as if to spite him, moved around more than usual this morning, going out into the corridor several times, taking a collar out of the wardrobe, putting it back and taking another one instead, and spending about half an hour cleaning his clothes. It was about eight o'clock when Ulrich left. Gurdweill leaped out of bed and went over to the window. At the sight of the azure-blue April morning invading the little street, he was seized by a fit of high spirits.

On a day like this it was good to be alive, to move about, to breathe. For the moment Gurdweill's worries lost their sting; everything seemed easier. He returned to the bed, where his clothes were laid out on a chair, and quickly began to get dressed. About half an hour later Gurdweill was ready, and he descended the stairs from the third floor with a buoyant step. Outside, he was enveloped in the mild morning air, which had a distinctive, undefinable smell, vaguely calling to mind pretty girls who had not yet reached maturity.

Everything seemed renewed. The pavement had already been sprayed, and the tiny puddles between the cracks were invisibly evaporating and adding freshness to the air. 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.


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  • 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.

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    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.

    David Vogel

    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. Set in Vienna, the novel tells of the relationship between the penniless writer Rudolf Gurdweill and the Baroness Thea von Takow, who treats her husband with cruelty and disdain. In spite of this, Gurdweill struggles to find the will to leave his wife, even when the devoted Lotte Bondheim offers him the prospect of true happiness.

    Yet this is no mere story of a love triangle.

    Married Life by David Vogel

    With decadence and poverty existing side by side, Vienna is depicted as a city on the brink of collapse — a haunting prefigurement of the horrors to come. With its rich, vital prose, and its profound insight into the human condition, Married Life is truly a modern classic. All Rights Reserved. Recently Viewed.