Love story erich segal free pdf download

Find out more about OverDrive accounts. Love Story. Erich Segal. Oliver and Jenny - kindred spirits from different worlds - meet, talk, question, answer and fall for each other so deeply that no one, themselves included, can understand it.

So instead of trying to understand it, they accept it and live it as best they can. It was based on the best-selling novel Love Story by Erich Segal. The above lines are from wiki. I did love this movie in spite of its tragic ending. What a wonder, even if the original work is unknown, the story does reach people in one form or the other.

Love Story Summary - www. Love Story Summary SuperSummary. Embed Size px x x x x Y and got his master's degree in classics in from Harvard. Doctors by Erich Segal. The Class by Erich Segal. Man, Woman, and Child by Erich Segal. Prizes by Erich Segal. Acts of Faith by Erich Segal. I'm in love with you. Then she answered very softly. I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised. It was my own fault, really. At a heated juncture, I made the unfortunate error of referring to their center as a 'fucking Canuck.

To add insult to injury, the penalty was called on me. And not a common one, either: five minutes for fighting. You should have heard the Cornell fans ride me when it was announced! Not many Harvard rooters had come way the hell up to Ithaca, New York, even though the Ivy ride was at stake. Five minutes! I could see our coach tearing his hair out as I climber into the box. Jackie Felt came scampering over. It was only then I realized that the whole right side of my face was a bloody mess.

I was ashamed to look onto the ice, where my worst fears were quickly realized; Cornell scored. The Red fans screamed and bellowed and hooted. It was a tie now. Cornell could very possibly win the game - and with it, the Ivy title. Shit - and I had barely gone through half my penalty. Across the rink, the minuscule Harvard contingent was grim and silent.

By now the fans for both sides had forgotten me. Only one spectator still had his eyes on the penalty box. Yes, he was there. Across the gulf of ice, Old Stonyface observed in expressionless silence as the last bit of blood on the face of his only son was stopped by adhesive papers.

What was he thinking, do you think? Teh tch tch - or words to that effect? Perhaps Old Stony was indulging in his usual self-celebration: Look at me, there are extremely few Harvard spectators here this evening, and yet I am one of them.

I, Oliver Barrett III, an extremely busy man with banks to run and so forth, I have taken the time to come up to Cornell for a lousy hockey game. How wonderful. For whom? The crowd roared again, but really wild this time. Another Cornell goal. They were ahead. And I had two minutes of penalty to go! Davey Johnston skated up-ice, red-faced, angry. He passed right by me without so much as a glance. And did I notice tears in his eyes?

I mean, okay, the title was at stake, but Jesus - tears! But then Davey, our captain, had this incredible streak going for him: seven years and he'd never played on a losing side, high school or college.

It was like a minor legend. And he was a senior. And this was our last tough game. Which we lost, After the game, an X ray determined that no bones were broken, and then twelve stitches were sewn into my cheek by Richard Selzer, M.

Jackie Felt hovered around the med room, telling the Cornell physician how I wasn't eating right and that all this might have been averted had I been taking sufficient salt pills. Selzer ignored Jack, and gave me a stern warning about my nearly damaging 'the floor of my orbit' those are the medical terms and that not to play for a week would be the wisest thing.

I thanked him. He left, with Felt dogging him to talk more of nutrition. I was glad to be alone. I showered slowly, being careful not to wet my sore face. The Novocain was wearing off a little, but I was somehow happy to feel pain. We'd blown the title, broken our own streak all the seniors had been undefeated and Davey Johnston's too. Maybe the blame wasn't totally mine, but right then I felt like it was. There was nobody in the locker room.

They must all have been at the motel already. I supposed no one wanted to see me or speak to me. With this terrible bitter taste in my mouth - I felt so bad I could taste it - I packed my gear and walked outside. There were not many Harvard fans out there in the wintry wilds of upstate New York.

How typical of him to suggest the old-fashioned cure for a black eye. Was I supposed to chuckle? And then I wondered if my father's quasi-witticism had not been intended as some sort of implicit reprimand for my actions on the ice.

But he simply replied, 'You were the one who mentioned veterinarians. As the main course was served, Old Stony launched into another of his simplistic sermonettes, this one, if I recall - and I try not to - concerning victories and defeats.

He noted that we had lost the title very sharp of you, Father , but after all, in sport what really counts is not the winning but the playing. His remarks sounded suspiciously close to a paraphrase of the put-down of such athletic trivia as Ivy tides. But I was not about to feed him any Olympic straight lines, so I gave him his quota of 'Yes sir's' and shut up. We ran the usual conversational gamut, which centers around Old Stony's favorite nontopic, my plans.

Was I supposed to smile at my father's rosy rhetoric? I haven't heard. III said very uprightly, 'just to inquire. Of course. I don't know why, but O. III has a way of disparaging me even while uttering laudatory phrases. Maybe it was because he was taking the opposite view. I doubt if he could have. The meal was as lousy as the conversation, except that I could have predicted the staleness of the rolls even before they arrived, whereas I can never predict what subject my father will set blandly before me.

I didn't know what he meant and vice versa. Was that it for the topic? Would we now discuss other current affairs or government programs? I had momentarily forgotten that our quintessential theme is always my plans. I'm sure Old Stony never listens to me anyway, so I'm not surprised that he didn't react to my quiet little sarcasm.

At about eleven-thirty, I walked him to his car. Good night, sir. Not that those many hours at the wheel could be taken as some kind of parental gesture. My father simply likes to drive. I have no doubt that Oliver Barrett III was out to break his Ithaca-Boston speed record, set the year previous after we had beaten Cornell and taken the title. I know, because I saw him glance at his watch.

I went back to the motel to phone Jenny. It was the only good part of the evening. I told her all about the fight omitting the precise nature of the casus belli and I could tell she enjoyed it. Not many of her wonky musician friends either threw or received punches.

I creamed him. Maybe you'll beat up somebody in the Yale game, huh? How she loved the simple things in life. I quickly concluded that this meant points for me. Obviously the 'Cliffie who greeted me read the Crimson and knew who I was.

Okay, that had happened many times. More significant was the fact that Jenny had been mentioning that she was dating me. The Crime says four guys jumped you.

And I got the penalty. Five minutes. Some musical wonk? It was not unknown to me that Martin Davidson, Adams House senior and conductor of the Bach Society orchestra, considered himself to have a franchise on Jenny's attention. Not body; I don't think the guy could wave more than his baton.

Anyway, I would put a stop to this usurpation of my time. I ambled into the lounge area. From afar I could see Jenny on the phone. She had left the booth door open. I walked slowly, casually, hoping she would catch sight of me, my bandages, my injuries in toto, and be moved to slam down the receiver and rush to my arms. As I approached, I could hear fragments of conversation. Of course! Oh, me too, Phil. I love you too, Phil. Who was she talking to? It wasn't Davidson - there was no Phil in any part of his name.

His photo suggested sensitivity, intelligence and about fifty pounds less than me. But why was I bothering about Davidson? Clearly both he and I were being shot down by Jennifer Cavilleri, for someone to whom she was at this moment how gross! I had been away only forty-eight hours, and some bastard named Phil had crawled into bed with Jenny it had to be that!

How could she be so two-faced? She kissed me lightly on my unhurt cheek. I always make the other guy look worse. She grabbed my sleeve and we started toward the door. When we were outside, about to step into my MG, I oxygenated my lungs with a breath of evening, and put the question as casually as I could.

What do you call yours? When she was very young, her mother was killed in a car crash. All this by way of explaining why she had no driver's license. Her father, in every other way 'a truly good guy' her words , was incredibly superstitious about letting his only daughter drive. This was a real drag during her last years of high school, when she was taking piano with a guy in Providence. But then she got to read all of Proust on those long bus rides.

I had been so out of it, I hadn't heard her question. Of stone. Of absolute stone. You're a big Harvard jock. I guess she didn't know everything, after all. Too bad I had to shoot myself down by giving her my father's. There was a little silence. It involves a kind of muscular intimidation as well. I mean, the image of athletic achievement looming down on you.

I mean, on me. Her eyes widened like saucers. I've got enough of my own. I told her how I loathed being programmed for the Barrett Tradition - which she should have realized, having seen me cringe at having to mention the numeral at the end of my name. And I did not like having to deliver x amount of achievement every single term. I mean he just takes me absolutely for granted.

Doesn't he run lots of banks and things? And there I got my first inkling of a cultural gap between us. I mean, three and a half years of Harvard-Radcliffe had pretty much made us into the cocky intellectuals that institution traditionally produces, but when it came to accepting the fact that my rather was made of stone, she adhered to some atavistic Italian-Mediterranean notion of papa-loves-bambinos, and there was no arguing otherwise.

I tried to cite a case in point. That ridiculous nonconversation after the Cornell game. This definitely made an impression on her. But the goddamn wrong one. She was still obsessed with the fact that he had traveled so far for such a relatively trivial sports event. If I was, would I be going out with you? For a strangely long while there wasn't any. I mean, there wasn't anything more significant than those kisses already mentioned all of which I still remember in greatest detail.

This was not standard procedure as far as I was concerned, being rather impulsive, impatient and quick to action. If you were to tell any of a dozen girls at Tower Court, Wellesley, that Oliver Barrett IV had been dating a young lady daily for three weeks and had not slept with her, they would surely have laughed and severely questioned the femininity of the girl involved. But of course the actual facts were quite different. I didn't know what to do.

Don't misunderstand or take that too literally. I knew all the moves. I just couldn't cope with my own feelings about making them. Jenny was so smart that I was afraid she might laugh at what I had traditionally considered the suave romantic and unstoppable style of Oliver Barrett IV. I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons. What I am fumbling to say is that I felt different about Jennifer, and didn't know what to say or even who to ask about it.

I just knew I had these feelings. For her. For all of her. I'm studying. You're looking at my legs. Every chapter. But can I help it if you think so? I was crouching by her chair. She looked back into her book. Our first physical encounter was the polar opposite of our first verbal one.

It was all so unhurried, so soft, so gentle. I had never realized that this was the real Jenny - the soft one, whose touch was so light and so loving. And yet what truly shocked me was my own response. I was gentle, I was tender. Was this the real Oliver Barrett IV? As I said, I had never seen Jenny with so much as her sweater opened an extra button. I was somewhat surprised to find that she wore a tiny golden cross. On one of those chains that never unlock.

Meaning that when we made love, she still wore the cross. In a resting moment of that lovely afternoon, at one of those junctures when everything and nothing is relevant, I touched the little cross and inquired what her priest might have to say about our being in bed together, and so forth.

She answered that she had no priest. She smiled back. She explained that it had been her mother's; she wore it for sentimental reasons, not religious.

The conversation returned to ourselves. I guess. He may not be a genius or a great football player kind of slow at the snap , but he was always a good roommate and loyal friend. And how that poor bastard suffered through most of our senior year.

Where did he go to study when he saw the tie placed on the doorknob of our room the traditional signal for 'action within'? Admittedly, he didn't study that much, but he had to sometimes.

But where did he sleep on those Saturday nights when Jenny and I decided to disobey parietal rules and stay together? Ray had to scrounge for places to sack in - neighbors' couches, etc. Well, at least it was after the football season. And I would have done the same thing for him. But what was Ray's reward? In days of yore I had shared with him the minutest details of my amorous triumphs.

Now he was not only denied these inalienable roommate's rights, but I never even came out and admitted that Jenny and I were lovers.

I would just indicate when we would be needing the room, and so forth. Stratton could draw what conclusion he wished. Christ, you must be making it. I mean, it was never like this before. I mean, this total freeze-out on details for big Ray. I mean, this is unwarranted. Christ, what does she do that's so different?

Christ, I greatly fear, old buddy. My sanity? Your freedom. Your life! He really meant it. We'll have that apartment in New York. Different babies every night. We'll do it all. That girl's got you. Stratton was somehow unconvinced. I had heard her play many times, of course, but never with a group or in public. Christ, was I proud. She didn't make any mistakes that I could notice. It was one of those April afternoons when you'd believe spring might finally reach Cambridge. Her musical colleagues were strolling nearby including Martin Davidson, throwing invisible hate bombs in my direction , so I couldn't argue keyboard expertise with her, We crossed Memorial Drive to walk along the river.

I play okay. Not great. Not even 'All-Ivy. You play okay. I just mean you should always keep at it. I'm gonna study with Nadia Boulanger, aren't I? A famous music teacher. In Paris. I was lucky.

I got a good scholarship too. I can hardly wait. Maybe I was too rough, I don't know. You'll go to Law school - ' 'Wait a minute - what are you talking about? And her face was sad. We're together now, we're happy. You can stuff any crazy kind of toy into it. But when the holiday's over, they shake you out. What about Paris, which I've never seen in my whole goddamn life? I'm saying it now. 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. User icon An illustration of a person's head and chest. Sign up Log in. Web icon An illustration of a computer application window Wayback Machine Texts icon An illustration of an open book. Books Video icon An illustration of two cells of a film strip. Video Audio icon An illustration of an audio speaker.