Der amerikanische Schriftsteller Erich Segal, dessen Liebesroman „Love Story“ auch als Film ein Welterfolg wurde, ist am Sonntag in. Mit dem Bestseller "Love Story" rührte er vor 40 Jahren weltweit Millionen Menschen - doch das Buch verfolgte den Literaturprofessor Erich. Eine der ganz großen Liebesgeschichten von Bestseller-Autor Erich Segal: Seit 50 Jahren der Klassiker der Liebes-Literatur Während seines Jurastudiums.
Erich Segal ist tot - Professor "Love Story" lebte mit einem FluchDiesterwegs Neusprachliche Bibliothek - Englische Abteilung / Love Story von Erich Segal - Buch aus der Kategorie Sekundärliteratur & Lektürehilfen günstig. Während seines Jurastudiums verliebt sich Oliver in seine freche Kommilitonin Jenny. Er stammt aus einem reichen Elternhaus, sie ist die Tochter armer. Love Story: Roman | Segal, Erich | ISBN: | Kostenloser Versand für alle Bücher mit Versand und Verkauf duch Amazon.
Love Story Erich Segal Get A Copy VideoAndy Williams - (Where Do I Begin) LOVE STORY 1970 (High Quality) Love Story Erich Segal. Erine Sismayadi. Download PDF. Download Full PDF Package. This paper. A short summary of this paper. 13 Full PDFs related to this paper. READ PAPER. 5/16/ · Love Story, by Erich Segal. The Library Key Uncategorized May 16, 3 Minutes. Maybe you’re having a gloomy day and you’re already predisposed to depressing thoughts. Or perhaps you read a book that plucks your heartstrings like an instrument and you don’t know whether to scream or cry. Erich Segal (June 16, – January 17, ) was an American author, screenwriter, and Classics Professor. He was best known for writing the phenomenally successful novel Love Story (), and the hit major motion picture of the same name. Photo by James R. Glenn. Love Story () Love Story in Erich Segal’s own words “Actually, I have always felt this to be a book about a young couple, but even more about a father and son. When I wrote it America was in the midst of a total generation war (Vietnam, Woodstock, Haight Ashbury etc.). Funny and flip, sad and poignant, Erich Segal's magnificent novel will grab you, hold you, and stay with you forever. You, like more than twenty million others, will fall in love with Love Story. "Not just a story--Love Story is an experience. The reader who responds to this little book will feel less like a reader than an unwritten Segal character, living it all out from the inside. Set in contemporary Northeast America, Love Story (), a romance novel by Erich Segal, follows the trials and tribulations of a young couple's ill-fated relationship. Segal originally penned the tale as a screenplay that was picked up by Paramount Pictures, but the company requested that he also write a novel adaptation. 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. Erich Segal (June 16, – January 17, ) was an American author, screenwriter, and Classics Professor. He was best known for writing the phenomenally successful novel Love Story (), and the hit major motion picture of the same name. Photo by James R. Glenn. NET mit dpa. Die Ärzte. Es ist nicht Besonderes oder Tiefgründiges, nicht hochpoetisch.
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. Loved this book very much! Since it was written in , my pov will be biased due the decades that have passed by.
The opening paragraph held so much strength and emotions that had stayed with me ever since. That she was beautiful and brilliant?
That she loved Mozart and Bach, the Beatles, and me? So, after all these years, now that I read it again, I am sorry to say that some of my present feelings are not the same as the past ones.
No feelings, no passion, no chemistry. The unexpected downfall was very short and curt, yet very emotional. But let me tell you, in the end I shed tears as I had all these decades ago Shelves: z , reviewed , fiction , readbooks-male-author-or-illust , zz-2star , novel , cancer.
But: when people have leukemia or whatever it was she was supposed to have had, they physically suffer a lot more. 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. 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? 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. 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. View 1 comment. Aug 15, Gagan rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: Everyone.
This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. That she was beautiful.
And Brilliant. And the Beatles. Oliver Barret IV went to Harvard and Jenny Cavilleri to Radcliffe. 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 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.
Buy 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. Apr 22, Jessaka rated it liked it. Sunshine Always Makes Me Cry Published in I read in in It was a tearjerker: A woman was dying of cancer and decides to tape record messes for her daughter, so when her daughter grows up, she will remember her mother.
Get to know her. Just that I have an image of Bill Bryson sitting it in a bar in Australia. But the voice in my head says that it was J Sunshine Always Makes Me Cry Published in But the voice in my head says that it was John Denver who sang it.
Upstairs, Preppie! Are you? I frightened you then, didn't I? There were very few 32 'Damn you, Jenny! Why don't you get out of my life?
My God, I thought, what's happening to me? I turned to look at Jenny. But she had gone. Now it's my turn! Ray Stratton was working in New York too and we played tennis together three times a week.
My old Harvard friends discovered me once more, and invitations arrived. I don't want to spend my free time with a lot of empty-headed preppies.
It's the name of a big sports star. He'll be wonderfully big and strong,' I continued. I jumped into the car at once. The cold was starting to make me ache.
But I repeated Jenny's words from long ago. Fiction by well-known authors, both classic and modem. Texts are not abridged or simplified in any way.
Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Philip K. Dick, and others The Eye of Childhood stories by D. He was talking to me. The voice was Jenny's. I didn't answer.
T tried too hard. About those two Dartmouth men. When I get back onto the ice, I'll break them into little pieces.
Just then the bell rang. My two-minute penalty had finished. I jumped onto the ice again. Jenny will hear them shouting for me, I thought.
But where was she? Had she left? As I went for the puck, I looked up into the crowd. JennyStupid and rich, clever and poor 'Do you always fight when you play hockey?
I took the puck and went towards the goal line. Two Dartmouth players were coming straight at me. Knock their heads off!
It was crazily, beautifully violent. I pushed past one Dartmouth man. I knocked hard into the other.
Then I passed the puck to Davey Johnson, and he banged it into the Dartmouth goal. The crowd went wild. I'm thinking. And when other people do it to you, you don't like it.
But I couldn't look back. My pride wouldn't let me. He and I slept in the same room. Ray was playing cards with some of his football-playing friends.
Studies music. Plays the piano with the Music Group. There I took off my shoes, lay back on my bed and telephoned Jenny's dormitory.
Then she answered, very softly: 'Oliver, you're crazy. Or surprised. And there he was, Oliver Barrett the Third. What was he thinking about? Who could say?
Why was he here? Family pride, perhaps. I am a very busy, important man, but I have come all the way to Cornell, just to watch my son play in a hockey match.
Father was chosen for the Olympic Games. And now he says winning is not important! I just looked down at my plate and said 'Yes, sir' at the right times.
Our non-conversation continued. After Playing the Game, he discussed My Plans. After dinner I walked with him to his car.
Good night, sir. Yes, of course there are planes, but Oliver Barrett the Third chose to drive. My father likes to drive -fast. And at that time of night, in an Aston Martin DBS, you can go very fast indeed.
I went to telephone Jenny. That was the only good part of the evening. I told her about the fight. She enjoyed that. Her musical friends never got into fights.
I'm sorry I couldn't be there to watch you. Perhaps you'll hit somebody in the Yale match? Jenny really made me feel better. Who was she talking to?
I had only been away forty-eightHow have you been, son? Next, Old Stonyface talked about Playing the Game. After all, they're sure to accept you.
I thought. Because I'm clever and successful? Or because I'm the son of Oliver Barrett the Third? The meal was as uninteresting as the conversation.
At last my father spoke again. I knew nothing about the Peace Corps. Back at Harvard the next day I called at her dorm. Jenny was talking to someone on the telephone in the hall.
Of course! Oh yes, Phil. I love you too. Love and kisses. Jenny did not seem ashamed. She kissed me lightly on the unhurt side of my face.
I always make the other man look worse. What do you call your father? You're a big hockey star -and you're always successful in your exams.
He was good at exams and sport, too. He was in the Olympic Games. Did he win? Jenny was silent for a moment. And that means I have to be good at everything, all the time.
I hate it. You hate being a hockey star. He was a big success, and he expects me to be the same. But I never told him about Jenny and me. It isn't natural.
At your age? My God, I worry about you, I really do. We'll have that flat in New York one day. Different girls every night. That girl's got you, and I don't like it!
Not wonderful. I cried. Reviews of Love Story 'Funny, touching, and infused with wonder, as all love stories should be. Love Story cover gallery.
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. A sequel, Oliver's Story , was published in A film adaptation was released on December 16, Love Story is romantic and funny, yet tragic.
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.
Upon graduation from college, the two decide to marry, against the wishes of Oliver's father, who promptly severs all ties with his son.
Either way I don't come first, which for some stupid reason bothers hell out of me, having grown up with the notion that I always had to be number one.
Family heritage, don't you know? In the fall of my senior year , I got into the habit of studying at the Radcliffe library. Not just to eye the cheese, although I admit that I liked to look.
The place was quiet, nobody knew me, and the reserve books were less in demand. The day before one of my history hour exams, I still hadn't gotten around to reading the first book on the list, an endemic Harvard disease.
I ambled over to the reserve desk to get one of the tomes that would bail me out on the morrow. There were two girls working there.
One a tall tennis-anyone type, the other a bespectacled mouse type. I opted for Minnie Four-Eyes. You guys have five million books.
We have a few lousy thousand. The kind who think since the ratio of Radcliffe to Harvard is five to one, the girls must be five times as smart.
I normally cut these types to ribbons, but just then I badly needed that goddamn book. Her eyes were brown.
Okay, maybe I look rich, but I wouldn't let some 'Cliffie-even one with pretty eyes- call me dumb. By shrewdly capitulating at the crucial moment-i.
And since she couldn't leave until the library closed, I had plenty of time to absorb some pithy phrases about the shift of royal dependence from cleric to lawyer in the late eleventh century.
I got an A minus on the exam, coincidentally the same grade I assigned to Jenny's legs when she first walked from behind that desk.
I can't say I gave her costume an honor grade, however; it was a bit too Boho for my taste. Fortunately I didn't mention this, as I later discovered it was of her own design.
We went to the Midget Restaurant, a nearby sandwich joint which, despite its name, is not restricted to people of small stature. I ordered two coffees and a brownie with ice cream for her.
I mean, that's most of "Oh," she said. After that, she was pretty quiet. Could we have run out of conversation so quickly?
Had I turned her off by not being related to the poet? She simply sat there, semi-smiling at me. Her handwriting was curious-small sharp little letters with no capitals who did she think she was, e.
And she was taking some pretty snowy courses: Comp. Isn't that a graduate course? Doesn't she read the Crimson? Doesn't she know who I am? Part of being a big winner is the ability to be a good loser.
There's no paradox involved. It's a distinctly Harvard thing to be able to turn any defeat into victory.
You played a helluva game. I mean, you people need to win so badly. I mean, if you have the option, the last-minute score is preferable. And as I walked Jenny back to her dorm, I had not despaired of ultimate victory over this snotty Radcliffe bitch.
I think I heard snow falling. CHAPTER 2 Oliver Barrett IV Ipswich, Mass. Age 20 Major: Social Studies Dean's List: '60,, '62 '63 All-ivy First Team: '62, '63; Career Aim: Law Senior Phillips Exeter 5'11" lbs.
By now Jenny had read my bio in the program. I made triple sure that Vic Claman, the manager , saw that she got one. And yet I think she thought I was glancing at her.
I mean, did she remove her glasses during the National Anthem out of respect for the flag? By the middle of the second period, we were beating Dartmouth o-o.
That is, Davey Johnston and I were about to perforate their nets. The Green bastards sensed this, and began to play rougher.
Maybe they could break a bone or two before we broke them open. The fans were already screaming for blood. And in hockey this literally means blood or , failing that, a goal.
As a kind of noblesse oblige, I have never denied them either. Al Redding, Dartmouth center, charged across our blue line and I slammed into him, stole the puck and started down-ice.
The fans were roaring. I could see Davey Johnston on my left, but I thought I would take it all the way, their goalie being a slightly chicken type I had terrorized since he played for Deerfield.
Before I could get off a shot, both their defensemen. There were three of us, flailing away against the boards and each other.
It had always been my policy, in pile- ups like this, to lash mightily at anything wearing enemy colors. Somewher e beneath our skates was the puck, but for the moment we were concentrating on beating the shit out of each other.
A ref blew his whistle. He was pointing at me. What had I done to deserve a penalty? He was calling to the officials' desk-"Number seven, two minutes -and signaling with his arms.
Iremonstrated a bit, but that's de rigueur. The crowd expects a protest, no matter how flagrant the offense.
The ref waved me off. Seething with frustration, I skated toward the penalty box. As I climbed in, listening to the click of my skate blades on the wood of the floor, I heard the bark of the PA system: "Penalty.
Barr ett of Harvard. Two minutes. I sat, trying to catch my breath, not looking up or even out onto the ice, where Dartmouth outmanned us.
I ignored her, and exhorted my teammates instead. She was my date, after "I tried too hard. And I went back to watching my teammates try to hold off Al Redding's determined efforts to score.
I couldn't wait to get out there again. Jenny persisted. As I stood up to look further, I was informed that my two-minute sentence was up.
I leaped the barrier, back onto the ice. The cr owd welcomed my return. Barr ett s on wing, all's right with the team. Wher ever she was hiding, Jenny would hear the big enthusiasm for my presence.
So who car es where she is. Where is she? Al Redding slapped a murderous shot, which our goalie deflected off toward Gene Kennaway, who then passed it down-ice in my vicinity.
As I skated after the puck, I thought I had a split second to glance up at the stands to search for Jenny. I did. I saw her.
She was there. The next thing I knew I was on my ass. Two Green bastards had slammed into me, my ass was on the ice, and I was-Christ!
Barrett dumped! I could hear the loyal Harvard fans groaning for me as I skidded. I could hear the bloodthirsty Dartmouth fans chanting.
Hit 'em again! Dartmouth had the puck around our goal again, and again our goalie deflected their shot.
Kennaway pushed it at Johnston, who rifled it down to me I had stood up by this time. This had to be a score. I took the puck and sped all out across Dartmouth's blue line.
Two Dartmouth defensemen were coming straight at me. Knock their heads off! It was exquisitely violent.
I faked out one defenseman, slammed the other so hard he lost his breath and then -instead of shooting off balance-I passed off to Davey Johnston, who had come up the right side.
Davey slapped it into the nets. Harvard score! In an instant, we were hugging and kissing. Me and Davey Johnston and the other guys. Hugging and kissing and back slapping and jumping up and down on skates.
The crowd was screaming. And the Dartmouth guy I hit was still on his ass. The fans threw programs onto the ice. This really broke Dartmouth's back.
That's a metaphor; the defenseman got up when he caught his breath. We creamed them If I were a sentimentalist, and cared enough about Harvard to hang a photograph on the wall, it would not be of Winthrop House, or Mem Church, but of Dillon.
Dillon Field House. If I had a spiritual home at Harvard, this was it. Nate Pusey may revoke my diploma for saying this, but Widener Library means far less to me than Dillon.
Every afternoon of my college life I walked into that place, greeted my buddies with friendly obscenities, shed the trappings of civilization and turned into a jock.
The return to Dillon would be even better. Peeling off the sweaty gear, strutting naked to the supply desk to get a towel.
Good, Jimmy. Being blessed with a bad knee yes, blessed: have you seen my draft card? As I sat and watched the rings run round my knee, I could catalog my cuts and bruises I enjoy them, in a way , and kind of think about anything or nothing.
Tonight I could think of a goal, an assist and virtually locking up my third consecutive All-Ivy. Diya know? I'd been to every orthopedist in the East, but Felt knew better.
He walked off with this amazing look of accomplishment on his idiot face. Anyway, I was alone again. I let my whole pleasantly aching body slide into the whirlpool, closed my eyes and just sat there, up to my neck in warmth.
Jenny would be waiting outside. I hope! How long had I lingered in that comfort while she was out there in the Cambridge cold? I set a new record for getting dressed.
I wasn't even quite dry as I pushed open the center door of Dillon. The cold air hit me. God, was it freezing. And dark.
There was still a small cluster of fans. Mostly old hockey faithfuls, the grads who've never mentally shed the pads. Guys like old Jordan Jencks, who come to every single game, home or away.
How do they do it? I mean, Jencks is a big banker. And why do they do it? You know what kind of game they play. Had she left and walked all the way back to Radcliffe alone?
Suddenly she popped out from behind a bush, her face swathed in a scarf, only her eyes showing.
I was carried away. I kissed her again. But not on the forehead, and not lightly. It lasted a lon g nice time. When we stopped kissing, she was still holding on to my sleeves.
Not my arm, my sleeve. Don't ask me to explain that. At the doorstep of Briggs Hall, I did not kiss her good night. A few moments.
Finally she asked, "Why? I pivoted again and scored from a distance of twenty feet. My roommate, Ray Stratton, was playing poker with two football buddies as I entered the room.
The animals were laughing. We spoke in whispers. I hesitated. She waited. I'm in love with you. Then she answered very softly.
I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised. CHAPTER 3 I got hurt in the Cornell game. It was my own fault, really. At a heated juncture, I made the unfortunate error of r eferring 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 title was at stake.
Five minutes! I could see our coach tearing his hair out, as I climbed into the box. Jackie Felt came scampering over.
I was ashamed to look onto the ice, wher e 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? Tch tch tch-or words to that effect? Oliver Barrett III was a walking, sometimes talking Mount Rushmore.
Perhaps Old Stony was indulging in his usual self- celebr ation: Look at m e, 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.