Love Story is a romance novel by American writer Erich Segal. The book's origins lay in a screenplay that Segal wrote, and that was subsequently. Love Story is a American romantic drama film written by Erich Segal, who was also the . Writer Harlan Ellison was on record in The Other Glass Teat, his book of collected criticism, as calling it "shit." The film is scored number nine on the. Love Story book. Read can I get a free e-book on Love Story? 1 like · like · 4 . Love Story is a romance novel by American writer Erich Segal.

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    Love Story 1970 Book

    Love Story [Erich Segal] on chuntistsicentcha.cf The basis for the film starring Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw, Erich Segal's Love Story is an enduring Start reading Love Story (Love Story series Book 1) on your Kindle in under a minute. Love Story [Erich Segal] on chuntistsicentcha.cf *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. The basis for the film starring Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw, Erich Segal's Love Story is an Author interviews, book reviews, editors' picks, and more. January 17, He was also a screenwriter, and Classics Professor. Love. Story was his best seller novel which was published in His novel, Love Story.

    Love Story is a romance novel by American writer Erich Segal. The book's origins lay in a screenplay that Segal wrote, and that was subsequently approved for production by Paramount Pictures. Paramount requested that Segal adapt the story into novel form as a preview of sorts for the film. The novel was released on February 14, , Valentine's Day. Portions of the story originally appeared in The Ladies' Home Journal.

    There was nothing more to say, really. I have actually made it on occasion in twenty-nine minutes. A certain distinguished Boston banker claims an even faster time, but when one is discussing sub thirty minutes from Bridge to Barrens', it is difficult to separate fact from fancy.

    I happen to consider twenty-nine minutes as the absolute limit. I mean, you can't ignore the traffic signals on Route I, can you? The MG was at sixty in under ten seconds. You'll really like him. Why was I taking her to meet them, anyway? I mean, did I really need Old Stonyface's blessing or anything? Part of it was that she wanted to 'That's the way it's done, Oliver' and part of it was the simple fact that Oliver III was my banker in the very grossest sense: he paid the goddamn tuition.

    It had to be Sunday dinner, didn't it? I mean, that's comme il faut, right? Sunday, when all the lousy drivers were clogging Route I and getting in my way. I pulled off the main drag onto Groton Street, a road whose turns I had been taking at high speeds since I was thirteen. Actually, I missed the turnoff myself that afternoon. I was three hundred yards down the road when I screeched to a halt. Is there something symbolic in the fact that I backed up three hundred yards to the entrance of our place?

    Anyway, I drove slowly once we were on Barrett soil. It's at least a half mile in from Groton Street to Dover House proper. En route you pass other.

    I guess it's fairly impressive when you see it for the first time. No kidding. Stop the car. She was clutching. I mean, I bet you have serfs living here. It'll be a breeze. As we waited for the ring to be answered, Jenny succumbed to a last-minute panic. Was either of us joking? The door was opened by Florence, a devoted and antique servant of the Barrett family.

    God, how I hate to be called that! I detest that implicitly derogatory distinction between me and Old Stonyface. My parents, Florence informed us, were waiting in the library.

    Jenny was taken aback by some of the portraits we passed. Not just that some were by John Singer Sargent notably Oliver Barrett II, sometimes displayed in the Boston Museum , but the new realization that not all of my forebears were named Barrett. There had been solid Barrett women who had mated well and bred such creatures as Barrett Winthrop, Richard Barrett Sewall and even Abbott Lawrence Lyman, who had the temerity to go through life and Harvard, its implicit analogue , becoming a prize-winning chemist, without so much as a Barrett in his middle name!

    I come from a long line of wood and stone. In the case are trophies. Athletic trophies. It is, however, also quite true that he enjoyed significant rowing triumphs on various other occasions.

    The well-polished proof of this was now before Jennifer's dazzled eyes. Under the bed. It was the Sonovabitch. This is Jennifer - ' 'Ah, hello there. I noted that he was not wearing any of his Banker Costumes. No indeed; Oliver III had on a fancy cashmere sport jacket.

    And there was an insidious smile on his usually rocklike countenance. In perverse moments I wondered how her boarding-school nickname might have affected her, had she not grown up to be the earnest do-gooder museum trustee she was. Let the record show that Tipsy Forbes never completed college. To which, all the time wondering if they had caught Jenny's humor, I could but add: 'Ah? Everybody was quiet. I tried to sense what was happening.

    Doubtless, Mother was sizing up Jennifer, checking out her costume not Boho this afternoon , her posture, her demeanor, her accent. Face it, the Sound of Cranston was there even in the politest of moments.

    Perhaps Jenny was sizing up Mother. Girls do that, I'm told. It's supposed to reveal things about the guys they're going to marry. Maybe she was also sizing up Oliver III. Did she notice he was taller than I? Did she like his cashmere jacket? Oliver III, of course, would be concentrating his fire on me, as usual.

    What would he say to that? I suppose not. Mother, who is always on his side, whatever the circumstances, turned the subject to one of more universal interest - music or art, I believe.

    I wasn't exactly listening carefully. Subsequently, a teacup found its way into my hand. It seems they had been discussing Puccini - or something, and my remark was considered somewhat tangential. Mother looked at me a rare event. Jenny gave me a look of 'What are you talking about? That's an order. And I don't take that kind of crap even from an Olympic finalist.

    We sat at the table obedient to the wishes of Oliver III. He bowed his head. Mother and Jenny followed suit. I tilted mine slightly. Couldn't he have omitted the piety just this once? What would Jenny think? God, it was a throwback to the Dark Ages. Nobody seemed amused. Least of all Jenny. She looked away from me. Oliver III glanced across at me. My mother was from Fall River.

    My mother smiled at this, apparently satisfied that her Oliver had taken that set. But not so. There was a brief pause. I awaited some slamming retort. We withdrew into the library for what would definitely be the last round. Jenny and I had classes the next day, Stony had the bank and so forth, and surely Tipsy would have something worthwhile planned for bright and early.

    So I brought up a topic. My father pretended to look embarrassed, and my mother seemed to be waiting for me to bow down or something. I mean, it's not Secretary of State, after all! Congratulations, sir. We drove on for a long time without saying a word. But something was wrong.

    Or, more appropriately, spaghetti sauce. For Jenny launched into a full - scale offense on paternal love. That whole Italian-Mediterranean syndrome. And how I was disrespectful. Or didn't you notice that? I then turned to Jennifer, mad as hell. I said it several times and in several tones of voice. I mean, I was so terribly upset, I even considered the possibility of there being a grain of truth to her awful suggestion.

    But she wasn't in great shape, either. I just think it's part of it. I mean, I know I love not only you yourself. I love your name. And your numeral. But she didn't; she finished her thought: 'After all, it's part of what you are. She was still doing it. But could I face the fact that I wasn't perfect? Christ, she had already faced my imperfection and her own. Christ, how unworthy I felt! I didn't know what the hell to say.

    She made a fist and then placed it gently against my cheek. I kissed it, and as I reached over to embrace her, she straight-armed me, and barked like a gun moll: 'Just drive, Preppie. Get back to the wheel and start speeding! My father's basic comment concerned what he considered excessive velocity. I forget his exact words, but I know the text for his sermon during our luncheon at the Harvard Club concerned itself primarily with my going too fast.

    He warmed up for it by. I politely suggested that I was a grown man, that he should no longer correct - or even comment upon - my behavior. He allowed that even world leaders needed constructive criticism now and then. I took this to be a not-too-subtle allusion to his stint in Washington during the first Roosevelt Administration. But I was not about to set him up to reminisce about F. So I shut up.

    We were, as I said, eating lunch in the Harvard Club of Boston.

    I too fast, if one accepts my father's estimate. This means we were surrounded by his people. His classmates, clients, admirers and so forth. I mean, it was a put-up job, if ever there was one. If you really listened, you might hear some of them murmur things like, 'There goes Oliver Barrett. Only the very nonspecific nature of the talk was glaringly conspicuous. You've presented us with a fait accompli, have you not? And for a girl from her background to get all the way to Radcliffe.

    I mean, she's not some crazy hippie - ' 'She is not many things. The goddamn nitty gritty. I told him so. As opposed to what? A boy? A girl? A mouse? Anyway, I stayed. The Sonovabitch derived enormous satisfaction from my remaining seated. I mean, I could tell he regarded it as another in his many victories over me. If this is real, it can stand the test of time. I was standing up to him. To his arbitrariness. To his compulsion to dominate and control my life.

    Not legally an adult. As if to compensate for my loudness, Oliver III aimed his next words at me in a biting whisper: 'Marry her now, and I will not give you the time of day. After the debacle of introducing Jennifer to her potential in-laws 'Do I call them outlaws now? I mean, here I would be bucking that lotsa love Italian-Mediterranean syndrome, compounded by the fact that Jenny was an only child, compounded by the fact that she had no mother, which meant abnormally close ties to her father.

    I would be up against all those emotional forces the psych books describe. Plus the fact that I was broke. He comes to see Mr. Cavilleri, a wage-earning pastry chef of that city, and says, 'I would like to marry your only daughter, Jennifer. He would not question Barretto's love, since to know Jenny is to love Jenny; it's a universal truth. No, Mr. Cavilleri would say something like, 'Barretto, how are you going to support her?

    Cavilleri's reaction if Barretto informed him that the opposite would prevail, at least for the next three years: his daughter would have to support his son-in-law!

    Would not the good Mr. Cavilleri show Barretto to the door, or even, if Barretto were not my size, punch him out? You bet your ass he would. This may serve to explain why, on that Sunday afternoon in May, I was obeying all posted speed limits, as we headed southward on Route Jenny, who had come to enjoy the pace at which I drove, complained at one point that I was going forty in a forty-five-mile-an-hour zone.

    I told her the car needed tuning, which she believed not at all. I told him. He said okay. In English, because, as I told you and you don't seem to want to believe, he doesn't know a goddamn word of Italian except a few curses. Thank God, I understood that.

    I still needed clarification, though. I had to know what I was in for. He was happy. He was.

    He had never expected, when he sent her off to Radcliffe, that she would return to Cranston to marry the boy next door who by the way had asked her just before she left. He was at first incredulous that her intended's name was really Oliver Barrett IV. He had then warned his daughter not to violate the Eleventh Commandment. Jenny lived on a street called Hamilton Avenue, a long line of wooden houses with many children in front of them, and a few scraggly trees.

    Merely driving down it, looking for a parking space, I felt like in another country. To begin with, there were so many people. Besides the children playing, there were entire families sitting on their porches with apparently nothing better to do this Sunday afternoon than to watch me park my MG. Jenny leaped out first. She had incredible reflexes in Cranston, like some quick little grasshopper.

    There was all but an organized cheer when the porch watchers saw who my passenger was. No less than the great Cavilleri! When I heard all the greetings for her, I was almost ashamed to get out. I mean, I could not remotely for a moment pass for the hypothetical Olivero Barretto. Capodilupo,' I heard Jenny bellow back. I climbed out of the car. I could feel the eyes on me.

    Not too subtle around here, are they? Which did wonders for my confidence. Capodilupo in my direction, 'but the girl he's with is really something! She then turned to satisfy neighbors on the other side. She took my hand I was a stranger in paradise , and led me up the stairs to A Hamilton Avenue.

    It was an awkward moment. I just stood there as Jenny said, 'This is my father. We shook and he had a strong grip. It was also a scary moment. Because then, just as he let go of my hand, Mr.

    Cavilleri turned to his daughter and gave this incredible shout: 'Jennifer! And then they were hugging. Very tight. Rocking to and fro. All Mr. Cavilleri could offer by way of further comment was the now very soft repetition of his daughter's name: 'Jennifer. One thing about my couth upbringing helped me out that afternoon.

    I had always been lectured about not talking with my mouth full. Since Phil and his daughter kept conspiring to fill that orifice, I didn't have to speak. I must have eaten a record quantity of Italian pastries. Afterward I discoursed at some length on which ones I had liked best I ate no less than two of each kind, for fear of giving offense , to the delight of the two Cavilleris.

    What did that mean? I didn't need to have 'okay' defined; I merely wished to know what of my few and circumspect actions had earned for me that cherished epithet. Did I like the right cookies? Was my handshake strong enough? Cavilleri's daughter. Now I saw. I appreciate it. Really I do.

    And you know how I feel about your daughter, sir. And you, sir. Cavilleri interrupted, 'can you avoid the profanity? The sonovabitch is a guest! I can't. But I reject him too, Phil. It's rare. Jenny was getting up and down to serve, so she was not involved with most of this. My father and I have installed a cold line.

    Believe me when I tell you he'll thaw. When it's time to go to church -' At this moment Jenny, who was handing out dessert plates, directed at her father a portentous monosyllable. Then, leaping instantly to the wrong conclusion, he turned apologetically toward me.

    I mean, as Jennifer has no doubt told you, we are of the Catholic faith. But, I mean, your church, Oliver. God will bless this union in any church, I swear. I want to be hit with everything on your minds. On anybody's God? And we won't be hypocrites. He might maybe have hit Jenny.

    But now he was the odd man out, the foreigner. He couldn't look at either of us. He looked at his daughter for verification. She nodded. My statement was correct. After another long silence, he again said, 'That's fine. Jenny explained that the ceremony we had in mind would have the college Unitarian chaplain preside 'Ah, chaplain,' murmured Phil while the man and woman address each other. William F. It was no easier repeating it. You are in charge of Financial Aid, aren't you, Dean Thompson?

    Your father - ' 'He's no longer involved, sir. Barrett,' he said. I wanted to say. This guy was beginning to piss me off. But that's why I've come to you, sir. I'm getting married next month. We'll both be working over the summer. Then Jenny - that's my wife - will be teaching in a private school. That's a living, but it's still not tuition. Your tuition is pretty steep, Dean Thompson.

    But that's all. Didn't this guy get the drift of my conversation? Why in hell did he think I was there, anyway? A third time. Thompson, hitting upon the technicality. The gory details, maybe? Was it scandal he wanted? Barrett, and I must tell you that I really don't think this office should enter into a family quarrel.

    A rather distressing one, at that. All sorts of relatives from Cranston, Fall River and even an aunt from Cleveland - flocked to Cambridge to attend the ceremony. On Thursday, I became Jenny's academic equal, receiving my degree from Harvard - like her own, magna cum laude. Moreover, I was Class Marshal, and in this capacity got to lead the graduating seniors to their seats.

    This meant walking ahead of even the summas, the super-superbrains. I was almost moved to tell these types that my presence as their leader decisively proved my theory that an hour in Dillon Field House is worth two in Widener Library. But I refrained.

    Let the joy be universal. More than seventeen thousand people jam into Harvard Yard on Commencement morning, and I certainly was not scanning the rows with binoculars. Obviously, I had used my allotted parent tickets for Phil and Jenny. Of course, as an alumnus, Old Stonyface could enter and sit with the Class of ' But then why should he want to?

    I mean, - weren't the banks open? The wedding was that Sunday. Our reason for excluding Jenny's relatives was out of genuine concern that our omission of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost would make the occasion far too trying for unlapsed Catholics.

    Timothy Blauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided. Jenny asked a girl friend from Briggs Hall and - maybe for sentimental reasons - her tall, gawky colleague at the reserve book desk. And of course Phil. I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil. I mean, just to keep him as loose as possible. Not that Stratton was all that calm! The pair of them stood there, looking tremendously uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing the other's preconceived notion that this 'do-it-yourself wedding' as Phil referred to it was going to be as Stratton kept predicting 'an incredible horror show.

    We had actually seen it done earlier that spring when one of Jenny's musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design student named Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us on the idea, 'Are you two ready? Blauvelt to the others, 'we are here to witness the union of two lives in marriage.

    Let us listen to the words they have chosen to read on this sacred occasion. Jenny stood facing me and recited the poem she had selected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett: When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire. From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes wide with amazement and adoration combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way a kind of prayer for A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death' hour rounding it.

    Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could read without blushing. I mean, I couldn't stand there and recite lace-doily phrases. I couldn't. I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live? I finished, and there was a wonderful hush in the room.

    Then Ray Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I - ourselves - recited the marriage vows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish, till death do us part. By the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Mr.

    Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man and wife. Upon reflection, our 'post-game party' as Stratton referred to it was pretentiously unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the champagne route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin's.

    As I recall, Jim Cronin himself set us up with a round, as a tribute to 'the greatest Harvard hockey player since the Cleary brothers. I mean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for getting more so. I let Phil pick up the tab, a decision which later evoked one of Jenny's rare compliments about my intuition 'You'll be a human being yet, Preppie'. It got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus, however. I mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny's, maybe mine too; I don't remember anything except that the moment was liquid.

    Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus and we waited and waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome truth started to get to me. Usually it was just break even. And there's nothing romantic about it, either. Remember the famous stanza in Omar Khayyam?

    You know, the book of verses underneath the bough, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and so forth? Substitute Scott on Trusts for that book of verses and see how this poetic vision stacks up against my idyllic existence. Ah, paradise? No, bullshit. All I'd think about is how much that book was could we get it secondhand? And then how we might ultimately scrounge up the dough to pay off our debts. Life changes. Even the simplest decision must be scrutinized by the ever vigilant budget committee of your mind.

    It just means three bucks. That is, I sailed a thirty-six-foot Rhodes from seven in the morning till whenever my passengers had enough, and Jenny was a children's counselor. It was a place called the Pequod Boat Club in Dennis Port not far from Hyannis , an establishment that included a large hotel, a marina and several dozen houses for rent. In one of the tinier bungalows, I have nailed an imaginary plaque: 'Oliver and Jenny slept here when they weren't making love. I simply say 'kind,' because I lack the vocabulary to describe what loving and being loved by Jennifer Cavilleri is like.

    Sorry, I mean Jennifer Barrett. Before leaving for the Cape, we found a cheap apartment in North Cambridge. I called it North Cambridge, although the address was technically in the town of Somerville and the house was, as Jenny described it, 'in the state of disrepair. But what the hell can graduate students do? It's a seller's market.

    This dialogue was taking place upon our reentry in September. Speaking as a married woman, I consider this place to be unsafe at any speed. Prove it. I scooped her in my arms and hauled her up five steps onto the porch. Upstairs, you turkey! This didn't make it easier for me to catch my breath. Scared you, didn't I? For a second there, I clutched. This is among the precious few moments I can recall in which the verb 'scrounge' has no relevance whatever. My illustrious name enabled us to establish a charge account at a grocery store which would otherwise have denied credit to students.

    And yet it worked to our disadvantage at a place I would least have expected: the Shady Lane School, where Jenny was to teach. Jenny tried to dispel her illusions, but all she could get in addition to the already offered thirty-five hundred for the year was about two minutes of 'ho ho ho's. Miss Whitman thought Jenny was being so witty in her remarks about Barretts having to pay the rent just like other people. When Jenny recounted all this to me, I made a few imaginative suggestions about what Miss Whitman could do with her - ho ho ho - thirty-five hundred.

    But then Jenny asked if I would like to drop out of law school and support her while she took the education credits needed to teach in a public school. I gave the whole situation a big think for about two seconds and reached an accurate and succinct conclusion: 'Shit. Just learn to like spaghetti. I learned to like spaghetti, and Jenny learned every conceivable recipe to make pasta seem like something else. What with our summer earnings, her salary, the income anticipated from my planned night work in the post office during Christmas rush, we were doing okay.

    I mean, there were a lot of movies we didn't see and concerts she didn't go to , but we were making ends meet. I mean, socially both our lives changed drastically. We were still in Cambridge, and theoretically Jenny could have stayed with all her music groups. But there wasn't time. She came home from Shady Lane exhausted, and there was dinner yet to cook eating out was beyond the realm of maximum feasibility.

    Meanwhile my own friends were considerate enough to let us alone. I mean, they didn't invite us so we wouldn't have to invite them, if you know what I mean.

    We even skipped the football games. As a member of the Varsity Club, I was entitled to seats in their terrific section on the fifty-yard line.

    But it was six bucks a ticker, which is twelve bucks. You can go without me. I don't know a thing about football except people shout 'Hit 'em again,' which is what you adore, which is why I want you to goddamn go! When Robbie left our apartment, effusively grateful, Jenny asked if I wouldn't tell her again just who got to sit in the V.

    Club section, and I once more explained that it was for those who, regardless of age or size or social rank, had nobly served fair Harvard on the playing fields. Such as perhaps the subtle suggestion that although Soldiers Field holds 45, people, all former athletes would be seated in that one terrific section. Old and young. Wet, dry - and even frozen. And was it merely six dollars that kept me away from the stadium those Saturday afternoons?

    No; if she had something else in mind, I would rather not discuss it. I was in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival, a crucial precedent in criminal law. Jenny was sort of waving the invitation to bug me. My mother addressed the envelope. Okay, so I did glance at it earlier. Maybe it had slipped my mind. I was, after all, in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival, and in the virtual shadow of exams. The point was she should have stopped haranguing me.

    Nothing says he'll still be around when you're finally ready for the reconciliation. She sat down quietly, squeezing herself onto a corner of the hassock where I had my feet. Although she didn't make a sound, I quickly became aware that she was looking at me very hard.

    I glanced up. She didn't raise her voice, though she usually did when I did. And by the time he's a freshman, you'll probably be in the Supreme Court!

    She then inquired how I could be so certain of that. I couldn't produce evidence. I mean, I simply knew our son would not resent me, I couldn't say precisely why. As an absolute non sequitur, Jenny then remarked: 'Your father loves you too, Oliver. He loves you just the way you'll love Bozo. But you Barretts are so damn proud and competitive, you'll go through life thinking you hate each other. My eyes returned to The State v. Percival and Jenny got up.

    But I've never deliberately hurt anyone. I don't think I could. I returned once again to The State v. She was at the telephone. What's the number? I was not listening to Jenny. That is, I tried not to. She was in the same room, after all. Did the Sonovabitch answer the phone? Wasn't he in Washington during the week? That's what a recent profile in The New York Times said. Goddamn journalism is going downhill nowadays. How long does it take to say no? Somehow Jennifer had already taken more time than one would think necessary to pronounce this simple syllable.

    Did she have to involve me in this? And why can't she get to the point and hang up? Can you just sit there and let your father bleed? But she was very upset.

    And it was upsetting me too. She must be going out of her mind! And trying not to cry. Ever,' I said with perfect calm. And now she was crying. While it was an affecting and sentimental little story, even at that young age I felt that it was trying too hard to tug on my heartstrings. It seemed, somehow, too juvenile, even to my then very juvenile mind.

    In later years, I came to realize that the movie's oft quoted line, "Love means never having to say you're sorry" is a complete falsehood. In fact, love means always being willi I read Love Story because I didn't want to see the movie, but I wanted to know what everyone was talking about.

    In fact, love means always being willing to say your sorry, and to mean it. Love grows stronger with humility, and the height of pride is the belief that a union can survive an unrepentant attitude.

    Love Story by Erich Segal, First Edition

    View all 7 comments. Jul 09, Orsodimondo rated it did not like it. Rimosso per vergogna? Secondo me vuol dire qualcosa, giustifica questa singola stella. Roba seria, questa.

    View all 25 comments. The book's origins lay in a screenplay that Segal wrote, and that was subsequently approved for production by Paramount Pictures. Paramount requested that Segal adapt the story into novel form as a preview of sorts for the film. The novel was released on February 14, , Valentine's Day. Love Story is romantic and funny, yet tragic.

    It is the tale of two college students whose love enables them to overcome the adversities they encounter in life: Oliver Ollie was expected to assume control of his father's business empire, while Jennifer Jenny was a music major studying at Radcliffe College and planning to study in Paris.

    From very different worlds, Oliver and Jenny are immediately attracted to each other and their love deepens. The story of Jenny and Ollie is a story of two young people who come from two separate worlds and are brought together in the unlikeliest of ways.

    I appreciate a good love story. I want smart-assy and witty banter. I want characters that play by their own rules or make them up as they go along. I want the possibility of real life.

    Published in , this short— page—novel is relatively obscure today. Se I appreciate a good love story. Segal created wonderful characters in Jenny and Oliver. Sure, they were from Harvard and Radcliffe; they have the all-too-common poor girl and rich boy histories; but, Segal was wise with his characters. He gives the readers just enough to know them, all the while making the reader fall in love with them.

    Before becoming a novel, this story was intended to be a script. No one bought it. When asked to rewrite it and submit it to a publisher, instant success ensued. It was eventually made into a movie with Segal writing the script…oh, did I mention it was nominated for seven Oscars? So the story is simple: Rich boy falls in love with poor girl. Poor girl opens the eyes of rich boy to the nuances and beauty of life.

    Poor girl dies. But the emotional impact I you might get while reading this book is beyond words.

    I knew Jenny was destined to die. I knew there would be revelations about class and family. But I never expected a sparsely written book to pierce me as quickly as or as deeply as this one did.

    Love Story ( film) - Wikipedia

    This one did. I thought about all I would have never experienced if I lost her at such an early stage of marriage. All of our inside jokes. All of the times when we made our happiness. Man, I sound gushy. But that is the power of this book. It awakens feelings in you. At least it did for me. Read the book. Hey, you might even get that wonderful feeling you once had with your special someone. Perhaps I am just a hopeless romantic. View all 6 comments. I laughed. I cried and believe me. I fell in love.

    I learned. I simply love the book. It was indeed beautifully written and it reached out into the depths of my soul. My heart just poured out as I read the last few pages of the book. Such a tiny book to stir such great emotions in me.

    View all 14 comments. Aug 24, Nan rated it did not like it Shelves: Shallow, contrived pseudo-tearjerker. I read this many years ago when it came out, and even though I was much younger and not as wise and mature as I am now, I realized how meaningless was the by-word of the book, "Love means not having to say you're sorry.

    It may be that you need a "Super Sad True" in the title, for this is the only way the tale could be made relevant and contemporary in the year As exotic for this WASP-y crowd as anything else. Right now, yr olds getting married seems a bigger, more exotic, waaaay rarer occurrence.

    Snarky and sexy teens? Mar 12, Geo Marcovici rated it it was amazing. Sad But beautiful! Sep 25, Mia rated it did not like it. I thought Erich Segal's "Love Story" would be great. I really did, considering all the hype that has lasted for decades. There was no chemistry at all between Oliver and Jenny--The Couple. The only thing they have in common is they like to swear a lot--which got too old too soon in the book.

    I mean, Oliver had way more chemistry with Phil, his wife's dad, than with his own wife. Neither characters were likable or relatable. We don't get to know them at all. All we know is that Oliver is a rich kid who loves Jenny more than money or his own father. And Jenny is this poor, smart musician who became a teacher and calls her dad by his first name. The only actual loving relationship I cared about was not the one between the couple but between the dad and son--and that was the relationship that wasn't explored at all except for when Segal sneaks in a lame attempt at reconciliation on the last page.

    If love means not ever having to say you're sorry, then it's good that I don't love this book because I am sorry for having read it. View all 4 comments. It's a very simple story. A boy meets a girl,they fall in love,but instead of happily ever after, there's a sad ending. But it was the emotions in the book which made it worth reading. The story is beautiful, funny,emotional,and a bit sad.

    As much as I loved the story,it was very simple,and I am giving it 4 stars only because it was very touching,and also because this book was capable of making me read it when it has already told the ending on the very first page. It was a great short read! May 02, Pooja rated it really liked it. I was told to read this book by my favorite junior and sister when I told her I've got into a relationship and how I feel complete and it's so so so beautiful between us.

    She asked me to read this book because I am going to find some similarities between the characters in the book, the relationship they had and between my soulmate and me. And I was glad to find out that the similarities, yes, they were there. And I felt really nice after reading this short little book. Loved this book very much! Jednostavnim stilom i kratkom pricom ispricanom iz njegove perspektive, uspjesno docarati ljubavnu pricu Rekla bih, jako zahtjevno.

    Svaka cast na uspjehu! View all 3 comments. Wasn't much into it actually. Even the movie, it wasn't a favorite of mine. But the book was a gift from one of my friends and I thought I should give it a try.

    One of my main reasons of reading this book is my previous reads of other novels that were made into movies. Although those movies weren't that good, the books were absolutely amazing. As for this case, the movie and the book hold 2 stars in my humble opinion. Thought the way her illness was described was so unrealistic and dishonest.

    Torn about this one. And I did enjoy the class and generation differences. View all 31 comments. Aug 15, Gagan rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers.

    To view it, click here. Here is a review that I wrote years back: That she was beautiful. And Brilliant. And the Beatles. He was rich, she was poor. He was sporty, she played music. But they fell in love. This is their story. I was enthralled by the movie and when finally I got hold of the Here is a review that I wrote years back: I was enthralled by the movie and when finally I got hold of the book, I was captivated by it.

    The book has been an emotional ride for nearly all the people I know. In those few hours while reading the book, I was snickering with laughter and weeping with bitter regret. Sometimes emotions overcome my senses when I read and I cry This was the only book where I wept even after closing it.

    I read it for happiness, inspiration and love. And his first novel Love Story is simply a magnum opus. Love is the main theme because this whole book is based upon love and its many aspects.

    He makes the whole relationship so simple and pure somehow. You fall in love with not only the book but with Oliver and Jenny Love Story is a phenomenal experience. The reader becomes so involved in the conflicts between family, friends, and the couple that every incident becomes personal and is taken to heart. It makes us cherish our relationship with the loved ones, and at the same time brings forth the inevitable Reading it makes you feel that there is so less time to love.

    We pass our daily lives seldom acknowledging the love we have around us. Once a person has read this novel, he will never be able to forget how strong the grip of love has on his heart or how tragedy can lead to forgiveness. download this book. Corrupt your children.

    Seduce a friend into reading it. A must read for anybody and everybody in search of love. View 2 comments. Jul 20, Vani rated it it was amazing. Oliver Barrett is the scion of the Barrett family and Jennifer a 'social zero'. Theirs is not an ordinary love story. This romance keeps the reader glued till the end, or rather an unpleasant end. The narrative is strong, effortless and edgy. No wonder it became a bestseller of its time and continues to spawn movie and TV adaptations. I can remember so many movies that have the same plot and yet, none has come close to evoking those same feelings as the book.

    I was literally moved to tears by th Oliver Barrett is the scion of the Barrett family and Jennifer a 'social zero'. I was literally moved to tears by the end. All in all, it was a lovely read and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Aug 06, Mith rated it really liked it Shelves: This was a fun, refreshingly charming, quick read. That is, until it reached in, ripped my heart out and crushed it into smush. I adored the book, I adored the characters and their flaws, I adored the relationship between Oliver and Jenny.

    Highly recommended, please go read it if you haven't already. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go cry into a pillow. A boy and a girl meet. They fall in love. The girl dies. And we have one of the best romances of all time. I may as well give it no stars as far as the plot is concerned. I started it today, I finished it today and I can't decide whether it's a good thing or otherwise.

    Writing a short novel is fine but why do i feel like I missed the part where I was supposed to feel the love seeping through the pages?

    There's no chemistry between the couple at all. The characters are not really li A boy and a girl meet. The characters are not really likeable. Oliver claims to love Jennifer and he makes her give up on her dream to go to Paris and study Music so that they could get married not to mention at a very early age. You call that 'love', eh?

    Follow the Author

    I don't remember him changing his career goals for her. I even fail to understand exactly why Oliver hated his father so much. There are actually so many things I fail to understand about this book. The writing is simple,the attempts of humour are not completely in vain. It's one of the least descriptive novels I've ever read. The story just goes on and you don't FEEL it. View all 10 comments. I found this book in our cabin up on Monhegan Island in Maine.

    I'm the biggest baby when it comes to romance. We were sitting there playing Scrabble there's no tv and listening to Delilah on the radio. I was already almost finished with this book, so I read it between my turns. I just started flat out bawling at the table in front of everyone as I finished. It's such a quick read, but man does this book pack an emotional punch. The characters really come to life. Although their basic descripti I found this book in our cabin up on Monhegan Island in Maine.

    Although their basic descriptions may seem like the stereotypic rich boy and poor girl, the family interactions and heartache really hit home.

    I did read the sequel to this book, but I like to just pretend it was based on totally different characters. The emotional dynamics of the second just can't compare. Apparecchio per la glicemia Amore significa non dover dire mai "mi dispiace".

    Ma nessuno ha mai riflettuto sul messaggio distorto che veicola la frase cult di questa indimenticabile opera? Comunque trattasi del classico libro capace di far leva sul senso di empatia generazionale grazie ai soliti, triti e ritriti, luoghi comuni ereditati dalla celeberrima opera di Shakespeare.

    Oct 18, Syndi rated it it was amazing. Love means you never have to say sorry. That line makes famous from this book. I am quite surprise how short is this book. Even it is short, it is a very beautiful love story. I can see Nicholas Spark takes some leaf from this book. Beautiful honest and not so dramatic. Love it.

    I wish I can see the movie now. Feb 17, Rossy rated it liked it. I admit I cried at the end. View all 5 comments. Beverly J. My rating: Jenny Cavilleri is a poor, wise ass sorta chick. This is definitely a case of opposites attract with a touch of Romeo and Juliet syndrome; they were destined to fail from the beginning.

    But they meet; they fall in love, etc. And as the summary so eloquently puts it: The thing that really bothered me the most about this story was I never fully believed those two actually loved each other; it felt far too contrived. Love means you can fuck up, you can apologize, you can talk about it if need be and you can behave like mature adults and grow and learn from the experience.

    It was very forced and awkward feeling. Oliver and Jenny even replaced cute nicknames for cuss words as well. Or an asshole. Possibly both? Erich Segal was the Nicholas Sparks of his era with his tales of epic love.

    I won by the way. Will I try more of his works? Have you read Love Story or any other novels by Segal? If so, are there any you would recommend? View all 8 comments. Gegara dibahas di twitter baru nyadar klo gw belum nge-rate buku ini.

    Ceritanya sih bagus, tapi bikin sakit hati dan ogaaahhhh buat baca ulang. Sakit hatinya kebawa ampe sekarang. Ngeliat nama Oliver aja masih suka sedih. Liat bentuknya Harpard sedih lagi norak deh:

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