This list of free ebooks is derived from 50 Greatest Love Stories Ever Told All For Love or, The World Well Lost by John Dryden (Gutenberg. eBooks - Category: Romance - Download free eBooks or read books online for free. English; Words; Ages 16 and up; ; A cute love story but she found out him not to be a good boy. will she be able to change him?will their love win over the Part 1 as a pdf you can find here http://www. The fotonovela Un amor perdido (A Lost Love) brought to you by the The fotonovela uses a dramatic story format that helps provoke thoughtful good. Mira Jorge, our baby is moving! Dr., does our baby look healthy? Is it a boy or a girl?.
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Best Love Stories. Novels with memorable love stories. Sorry if my English is not good, I'm from Argentina. reply | flag *. message by. Results 1 - 10 of Diane's Fantasy is a pure romance fiction that shows the. her marriage is strong and her apartment at the top of Noe Valley is the envy of. The PDF you are reading is an electronic version of a physical book that can A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library . by writing, by telling stories, Beckett's narrator attempts to mend For a good overview of some of these .. or 'phenomenology' of love's One with a discussion of his novel-.
I ordered two coffees and a brownie with ice cream for her. I mean, that's most of it. 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.
For something to do, I checked out her notebooks. 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, 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. Phillips Exeter Age '11" lbs.
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 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.
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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 were on me, and I had to skate around their nets to keep hold of the puck.
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. Somewhere 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.
I remonstrated 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. Barrett 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 all. 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 crowd welcomed my return. Barrett's on wing, all's right with the team. Wherever she was hiding, Jenny would hear the big enthusiasm for my presence. So who cares 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. Now the crowd was wild. 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.
How great to put on the pads and the good old number 7 shirt I had dreams of them retiring that number; they didn't , to take the skates and walk out toward the Watson Rink.
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' Then into the showers to listen to who did what to whom how many times last Saturday night.
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? 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. 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? I was carried away. I kissed her again. But not on the forehead, and not lightly. It lasted a long nice time. When we stopped kissing, she was still holding on to my sleeves. Not my. 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. She waited. 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.
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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.
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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. 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. Instead of telling his father what the money is truly for, Oliver misleads him. From her hospital bed, Jenny speaks with her father about funeral arrangements, and then asks for Oliver. She tells him to avoid blaming himself, and asks him to hold her tightly before she dies.
When Mr. Barrett realizes that Jenny is ill and that his son borrowed the money for her, he immediately sets out for New York. By the time he reaches the hospital, Jenny has died. Barrett apologizes to his son, who replies with something Jenny had once told him: "Love means never having to say you're sorry In fact, Al Gore mentioned, correctly, that he had read that the characters were based on him and his wife. In Segal confirmed Gore's account, explaining that he had been inaccurately quoted in the Nashville Tennessean and that "only the emotional family baggage of the romantic hero But it was Gore's Harvard roommate, Tommy Lee Jones , who inspired the half of the character that was a sensitive stud, a macho athlete with the heart of a poet".
Erich Segal had met both Jones and Gore at Harvard in , when he was there on sabbatical. It was nominated for a National Book Award , but withdrawn when the judges threatened to resign. William Styron , the head judge for fiction that year, called it "a banal book which simply doesn't qualify as literature" and suggested that even by being nominated it would have "demeaned" all the other novels under consideration.
Madanolsavam , a Malayalam film, was inspired from this novel. Sanam Teri Kasam , is a Hindi film based on this novel.And when Dain's reciprocal passion places them in a scandalously compromising, and public, position, Jessica is left with no choice but to seek satisfaction. But I refrained.
God, how I hate to be called that! Dartmouth had the puck around our goal again, and again our goalie deflected their shot. This person knows things that others do not, and they also have to deal with all of the sadness from the past.
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