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Tulip Fever A Novel [Paperback]

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  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  Moggach, Deborah
  • Author:  Moggach, Deborah
  • ISBN-10:  0385334923
  • ISBN-10:  0385334923
  • ISBN-13:  9780385334921
  • ISBN-13:  9780385334921
  • Publisher:  Dial Press Trade Paperback
  • Publisher:  Dial Press Trade Paperback
  • Pages:  288
  • Pages:  288
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-May-2001
  • Pub Date:  01-May-2001
  • SKU:  0385334923-11-SPLV
  • SKU:  0385334923-11-SPLV
  • Item ID: 100139723
  • List Price: $18.00
  • Seller: ShopSpell
  • Ships in: 2 business days
  • Transit time: Up to 5 business days
  • Delivery by: Jan 19 to Jan 21
  • Notes: Brand New Book. Order Now.
Deborah Moggachis the author of many successful novels, includingThe Best Exotic Marigold HotelandTulip Fever,and two collections of stories. Her screenplays includePride and Prejudice,which was nominated for a BAFTA. She lives in North London.Sophia

Trust not to appearances.
-- Jacob Cats,Moral Emblems, 1632

We are eating dinner, my husband and I. A shred of leek is caught in his beard. I watch it move up and down as he chews; it is like an insect caught in the grass. I watch it idly, for I am a young woman and live simply, in the present. I have not yet died and been reborn. I have not yet died a second time -- for in the eyes of the world this will be considered a second death. In my end is my beginning; the eel curls round and swallows its own tail. And in the beginning I am still alive, and young, though my husband is old. We lift our wine flutes and drink. Words are etched on my glass: Mankind's hopes are fragile glass and life is therefore also short, a scratched homily through the sinking liquid.

Cornelis tears off a piece of bread and dips it into his soup. He chews for a moment. "My dear, I have something to discuss." He wipes his lips with his napkin. "In this transitory life do we not all crave immortality?"

I freeze, knowing what is coming. I gaze at my roll, lying on the tablecloth. It has split, during baking, and parted like lips. For three years we have been married and I have not produced a child. This is not through lack of trying. My husband is still a vigorous man in this respect. At night he mounts me; he spreads my legs and I lie there like an upturned beetle pressed down by a shoe. With all his heart he longs for a son -- an heir to skip across these marble floors and give a future to this large, echoing house on the Herengracht.

So far I have failed him. I submit to his embraces, of course, for I am a dutiful wife and shall always be grlÃÂ
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