Mit dem Bestseller "Love Story" rührte er vor 40 Jahren weltweit Millionen Menschen - doch das Buch verfolgte den Literaturprofessor Erich. Der amerikanische Schriftsteller Erich Segal, dessen Liebesroman „Love Story“ auch als Film ein Welterfolg wurde, ist am Sonntag in. Inhaltsangabe zu "Love Story". Eine der ganz großen Liebesgeschichten von Bestseller-Autor Erich Segal: Seit 50 Jahren der Klassiker der Liebes-Literatur.
Welterfolg mit „Love Story“: Erich Segal ist totLove Story ist ein Film-Melodrama aus dem Jahr Das Drehbuch schrieb Erich Segal, der Autor des gleichnamigen Romans. Der Film erzählt die tragische. Mit dem Bestseller "Love Story" rührte er vor 40 Jahren weltweit Millionen Menschen - doch das Buch verfolgte den Literaturprofessor Erich. Thalia: Infos zu Autor, Inhalt und Bewertungen ❤ Jetzt»Love Story«nach Hause oder Ihre Filiale vor Ort bestellen!
Love Story Erich Segal See a Problem? VideoLove Story 1970 by Erich Segal - sound with Gheorghe Zamfir Love Story: Roman | Segal, Erich | ISBN: | Kostenloser Versand für alle Bücher mit Versand und Verkauf duch Amazon. Eine der ganz großen Liebesgeschichten von Bestseller-Autor Erich Segal: Seit 50 Jahren der Klassiker der Liebes-Literatur Während seines Jurastudiums. Love Story ist ein Film-Melodrama aus dem Jahr Das Drehbuch schrieb Erich Segal, der Autor des gleichnamigen Romans. Der Film erzählt die tragische. Thalia: Infos zu Autor, Inhalt und Bewertungen ❤ Jetzt»Love Story«nach Hause oder Ihre Filiale vor Ort bestellen! Next page. Instead, he tries to continue living life normally Matthias Stein her benefit, but Jenny finds Walking Dead Staffel 6 Online Stream about her illness on her own when she confronts the doctor. There was something juvenile in it, like it was there only to tear jerk us if you Kinder Zeugen what I mean. I adored the book, I adored the characters and their flaws, I adored the relationship between Oliver and Jenny. It could have been much better and with more pages to contain much story content but Nope. Die Studenten der renommierten Yale-Universität in New England, an der Segal vergleichende Literaturwissenschaft lehrte, gingen mit ihrem Professor hart ins Gericht. Die Staffelliste lässt sich nicht lange hinauszögern, und Jenny stirbt in Olivers Armen. Love Story ist ein Film- Melodrama aus dem Jahr Kunal Nayyar Doch Swat Staffel 3 schlägt das Schicksal grausam zu.
And me. You either fight it or let it out. Skip to content. Home Posts Me, Who Am I? Review Index Contact. The Library Key Uncategorized May 16, 3 Minutes.
Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like this: Like Loading Just as they had almost done each other in, they crawled on the ground to reach each other, held out their hands, touched fingertips and expired..
I was heartbroken. Nostalgia The kind of nostalgia that turned into nausea. The audience, including myself, laughed all the way through the cheesy movie, and when the couple died at the end, we even laughed harder.
View all 5 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. View all 3 comments. Aug 06, Mith rated it really liked it Shelves: absolutely-spiffing , classics , slice-of-life , rom-com-chick-lit.
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. 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. And I'm sorry but love DOES mean having to say you're sorry.
Oct 18, Ivana Books Are Magic rated it liked it. I enjoyed Love Story. I found it interesting and easy to read.
I didn't quite like it as much as I imagined I will, though. The novel opening lines are among the most dramatic in the history of literature "What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
So, I was expecting an emotional tale. Did I get emotionally involved while I was reading it? Not at all. However, there are many th I enjoyed Love Story.
However, there are many things about Love Story that I liked. I found it such an interesting read. For example, when you think about USA from a perspective of an outsider, you often see it as a coherent nation, but like in the most nations, when you dig a little deeper you find all kinds of interesting mixes.
Perhaps surprisingly, the most interesting part about this novel for me was not the tragic love story itself but the honest portrait of divisions and boarders that are created by religion and social status.
They can be overcome as they are in novel, but usually it means giving up a part of your identity, as the protagonists do in the novel. I mean the lovebirds in question don't seem to mind, it's mostly their families that object.
Nevertheless, this is due to the fact that neither of them really practices their religion. So, they they are married in a civil ceremony and everyone is happy.
If they were really religious, there could have been problems, for one of them would have to give something up. This novel got me thinking about Protestantism and Catholicism, and despite the fact that they are both Christian religions, the history and present shows some definite tension between the members.
Obviously there is the historical context but what is the reason of animosity today? Well, religion is always complicated. I guess I'm trying to say that I was more interested in the details of this novel than the plot and story line.
Perhaps it was that the novel was too short to really identify with the characters or there was just something missing for me to feel really engaged.
If I remember well, I read this novel in about an hour. The narrative was easy to follow. All in all, Love Story proved a quick and easy read.
Another thing I liked is that the protagonist is very sincere and at times humorous. Moreover, the dialogues between him and Jenny his soul mate are witty.
The opening lines of the book certainly got attention, and the book kept my attention- but to be honest it was somewhat of a shallow kind of attention.
As I already said, I didn't feel deeply emotionally or intellectually engaged. I was interested in the book while I read it, yet I did not feel that much.
In other words, I liked it and I though it a nice and at times funny read, but I was not deeply impressed.
The tragic story itself left me cold and didn't feel credible. There was something juvenile in it, like it was there only to tear jerk us if you know what I mean.
Maybe I'm just not a romantic person. My final opinion is that while it is worth reading, Love Story not life-changing.
It is a lovely novel, but not the kind I would care to read again. May 17, Neha rated it really liked it Shelves: romance , chicklit , saw-movie-version-too.
Today I got to watch the movie and the characterization and the setting was gorgeous, and the love was simple and special between Oliver and Jennifer.
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. Not "Olympic Games". Just OK. I'm going to study with Nadia Boulanger, aren't I? She's a famous music teacher in Paris.
I'm very lucky. I won a scholarship, too. I'm really excited about it. We can't do anything about it. After we finish university, you'll go your way and I'll go mine.
You'll go to law school-' 'Wait a minute! What are you talking about? Your old man owns a bank. My father's a baker in Cranston, Rhode Island.
We're together now. We're happy. You study together, you have fun together. But afterwards you have to go back to where you belong.
Don't leave me, Jenny. What about Paris? I'm saying it now. We belong together 'After we finish university, you'll go your way and I'll go mine.
There was nothing more to say, really. The next Sunday we drove to visit my parents in Ipswich, Massachusetts. Jenny said it was the right thing to do, and of course there was also the fact that Oliver the Third paid for my studies at Harvard.
T didn't expect this. It's like a damn palace! Everything will be fine. Not for Jennifer Cavilleri, baker's daughter, from Cranston, Rhode Island.
She has worked for the Barrett family for many years. She told us that my parents were waiting in the library. We followed her past a long line of pictures of famous Barretts and a glass case full of silver and gold cups.
Are they yours? Up in my room, under the bed. This is Jennifer-' 'Hello there. There was a smile on his usually rock-like face. My wife Alison.
This is Jennifer-' 'Calliveri,' I said -for the first and only time, I got her damn name wrong! Mother and Jenny shook What about coffee?
We moved back into the library. We sat there with nothing to say to each other. So I started a new non-conversation. Your father is going to be Head of the Peace Corps.
Well done, sir,' I said at last. It's impossible to hurt Oliver Barrett the Third. Oliver, I know you love me. 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. 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 Seizer, M.
Seizer 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. 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.
I mean, hadn't I really fucked up? 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.
Ther e were not many Harvard fans out there in the wintry wilds of upstate New York. Thus spake Oliver Barrett III.
How typical of him to suggest the old-fashioned cure for a black eye. At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series of nonconversations, all of which commence with "How've you been?
It was beginning to hurt like hell. 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 Olympic motto, and I sensed this was the overture to a put-down of such athletic trivia as Ivy titles.
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.
Idon'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 befor e 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. Yes, there are planes between Boston and Ithaca, New York, but Oliver Barrett III chose to drive. 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. CHAPTER 4 "Jenny's on the downstairs phone. I quickly concluded that this meant points for me.
Obviously the 'Cliffle who greeted me read the Crimson and knew who I was. They have a terrible argument, and Jenny storms out of the apartment.
Frantically, Oliver looks for her throughout the night; finally, he finds her waiting for him on the stairs leading to their apartment.
At last, Oliver graduates from law school and takes a lucrative job. They enjoy their new wealth, buying all the luxuries they had gone without during the past three years.
With this newfound financial stability, they decide to start a family of their own. However, Jenny has trouble getting pregnant.
Oliver and Jenny go to a fertility doctor for assistance, and the doctor runs some tests.I want to be hit with everything on your minds. I want characters that Tankstelle Maskenpflicht by their own rules or make them up as they go along. Get A Copy. Of course! I mean the lovebirds in question don't seem to mind, it's mostly their families that object. Family heritage, don't you know? To browse Academia. I graduated from Harvard the next day. As we waited for the ring to be answered, Jenny succumbed to a last-minute panic. I walked over and put my hand on his arm. She just sat O2 Neukunden with an absolute no-expression expression. Skip to main content. But I couldn't think of anything painless to say.