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The notebook
1996
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In a testimony to the lasting power of love, a man tells an elderly woman a story from a faded old notebook, his voice relating the heartbreaking tale of two lovers and their fifty-year journey to happiness - (Baker & Taylor)

A touching dual tale of love lost and love found is discovered in a faded, well-worn notebook and in a man's gentle battle to reach an aging woman who cannot remember the most cherished moments of her life. Reprint. - (Baker & Taylor)

Experience the unforgettable, heartbreaking love story set in post-World War II North Carolina about a young socialite and the boy who once stole her heart -- one of PBS's "Great American Reads".
Every so often a love story so captures our hearts that it becomes more than a story-it becomes an experience to remember forever. The Notebook is such a book. It is a celebration of how passion can be ageless and timeless, a tale that moves us to laughter and tears and makes us believe in true love all over again...

At thirty-one, Noah Calhoun, back in coastal North Carolina after World War II, is haunted by images of the girl he lost more than a decade earlier. At twenty-nine, socialite Allie Nelson is about to marry a wealthy lawyer, but she cannot stop thinking about the boy who long ago stole her heart. Thus begins the story of a love so enduring and deep it can turn tragedy into triumph, and may even have the power to create a miracle...
- (Grand Central Pub)

Experience the unforgettable, heartbreaking love story set in post-World War II North Carolina about a young socialite and the boy who once stole her heart -- one of PBS's "Great American Reads".

Every so often a love story so captures our hearts that it becomes more than a story-it becomes an experience to remember forever. The Notebook is such a book. It is a celebration of how passion can be ageless and timeless, a tale that moves us to laughter and tears and makes us believe in true love all over again...

At thirty-one, Noah Calhoun, back in coastal North Carolina after World War II, is haunted by images of the girl he lost more than a decade earlier. At twenty-nine, socialite Allie Nelson is about to marry a wealthy lawyer, but she cannot stop thinking about the boy who long ago stole her heart. Thus begins the story of a love so enduring and deep it can turn tragedy into triumph, and may even have the power to create a miracle...
- (Hachette Book Group)

First Chapter or Excerpt

The Notebook


By Nicholas Sparks

Warner Books

Copyright © 1996 Nicholas Sparks
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-446-60523-9


Chapter One

Miracles

Who am I? And how, I wonder, will this story end?

The sun has come up and I am sitting by a window that is foggy withthe breath of a life gone by. I'm a sight this morning: two shirts,heavy pants, a scarf wrapped twice around my neck and tucked into athick sweater knitted by my daughter thirty birthdays ago. Thethermostat in my room is set as high as it will go, and a smallerspace heater sits directly behind me. It clicks and groans and spewshot air like a fairytale dragon, and still my body shivers with acold that will never go away, a cold that has been eighty years inthe making. Eighty years, I think sometimes, and despite my ownacceptance of my age, it still amazes me that I haven't been warmsince George Bush was president. I wonder if this is how it is foreveryone my age.

My life? It isn't easy to explain. It has not been the rip-roaringspectacular I fancied it would be, but neither have I burrowedaround with the gophers. I suppose it has most resembled a bluechipstock: fairly stable, more ups than downs, and gradually trendingupward over time. A good buy, a lucky buy, and I've learned that noteveryone can say this about his life. But do not be misled. I amnothing special; of this I am sure. I am a common man with commonthoughts, and I've led a common life. There are no monumentsdedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I've lovedanother with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always beenenough.

The romantics would call this a love story, the cynics would call ita tragedy. In my mind it's a little bit of both, and no matter howyou choose to view it in the end, it does not change the fact thatit involves a great deal of my life and the path I've chosen tofollow. I have no complaints about my path and the places it hastaken me; enough complaints to fill a circus tent about otherthings, maybe, but the path I've chosen has always been the rightone, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Time, unfortunately, doesn't make it easy to stay on course. Thepath is straight as ever, but now it is strewn with the rocks andgravel that accumulate over a lifetime. Until three years ago itwould have been easy to ignore, but it's impossible now. There is asickness rolling through my body; I'm neither strong nor healthy,and my days are spent like an old party balloon: listless, spongy,and growing softer over time.

I cough, and through squinted eyes I check my watch. I realize it istime to go. I stand from my seat by the window and shuffle acrossthe room, stopping at the desk to pick up the notebook I have read ahundred times. I do not glance through it. Instead I slip it beneathmy arm and continue on my way to the place I must go.

I walk on tiled floors, white in color and speckled with gray. Likemy hair and the hair of most people here, though I'm the only one inthe hallway this morning. They are in their rooms, alone except fortelevision, but they, like me, are used to it. A person can get usedto anything, if given enough time.

I hear the muffled sounds of crying in the distance and know exactlywho is making those sounds. Then the nurses see me and we smile ateach other and exchange greetings. They are my friends and we talkoften, but I am sure they wonder about me and the things that I gothrough every day. I listen as they begin to whisper amongthemselves as I pass. "There he goes again," I hear, "I hope itturns out well." But they say nothing directly to me about it. I'msure they think it would hurt me to talk about it so early in themorning, and knowing myself as I do, I think they're probably right.

A minute later, I reach the room. The door has been propped open forme, as it usually is. There are two others in the room, and they toosmile at me as I enter. "Good morning," they say with cheery voices,and I take a moment to ask about the kids and the schools andupcoming vacations. We talk above the crying for a minute or so.They do not seem to notice; they have become numb to it, but thenagain, so have I.

Afterward I sit in the chair that has come to be shaped like me.They are finishing up now; her clothes are on, but still she iscrying. It will become quieter after they leave, I know. Theexcitement of the morning always upsets her, and today is noexception. Finally the shade is opened and the nurses walk out. Bothof them touch me and smile as they walk by. I wonder what thismeans.

I sit for just a second and stare at her, but she doesn't return thelook. I understand, for she doesn't know who I am. I'm a stranger toher. Then, turning away, I bow my head and pray silently for thestrength I know I will need. I have always been a firm believer inGod and the power of prayer, though to be honest, my faith has madefor a list of questions I definitely want answered after I'm gone.

Ready now. On go the glasses, out of my pocket comes a magnifier. Iput it on the table for a moment while I open the notebook. It takestwo licks on my gnarled finger to get the wellworn cover open to thefirst page. Then I put the magnifier in place.

There is always a moment right before I begin to read the story whenmy mind churns, and I wonder, Will it happen today? I don't know,for I never know beforehand, and deep down it really doesn't matter.It's the possibility that keeps me going, not the guarantee, a sortof wager on my part. And though you may call me a dreamer or fool orany other thing, I believe that anything is possible.

I realize the odds, and science, are against me. But science is notthe total answer; this I know, this I have learned in my lifetime.And that leaves me with the belief that miracles, no matter howinexplicable or unbelievable, are real and can occur without regardto the natural order of things. So once again, just as I do everyday, I begin to read the notebook aloud, so that she can hear it, inthe hope that the miracle that has come to dominate my life willonce again prevail.

And maybe, just maybe, it will.

Ghosts

It was early October 1946, and Noah Calhoun watched the fading sunsink lower from the wraparound porch of his plantation-style home.He liked to sit here in the evenings, especially after working hardall day, and let his thoughts wander without conscious direction. Itwas how he relaxed, a routine he'd learned from his father.

He especially liked to look at the trees and their reflections inthe river. North Carolina trees are beautiful in deep autumn:greens, yellows, reds, oranges, every shade in between. Theirdazzling colors glow with the sun, and for the hundredth time, NoahCalhoun wondered if the original owners of the house had spent theirevenings thinking the same things.

The house was built in 1772, making it one of the oldest, as well aslargest, homes in New Bern. Originally it was the main house on aworking plantation, and he had bought it right after the war endedand had spent the last eleven months and a small fortune repairingit. The reporter from the Raleigh paper had done an article on it afew weeks ago and said it was one of the finest restorations he'dever seen. At least the house was. The remaining property wasanother story, and that was where he'd spent most of the day. Thehome sat on twelve acres adjacent to Brices Creek, and he'd workedon the wooden fence that lined the other three sides of theproperty, checking for dry rot or termites, replacing posts when hehad to. He still had more work to do on it, especially on the westside, and as he'd put the tools away earlier he'd made a mental noteto call and have some more lumber delivered. He'd gone into thehouse, drunk a glass of sweet tea, then showered. He always showeredat the end of the day, the water washing away both dirt and fatigue.

Afterward he'd combed his hair back, put on some faded jeans and along-sleeved blue shirt, poured himself another glass of sweet tea,and gone to the porch, where he now sat, where he sat every day atthis time.

He stretched his arms above his head, then out to the sides, rollinghis shoulders as he completed the routine. He felt good and cleannow, fresh. His muscles were tired and he knew he'd be a little soretomorrow, but he was pleased that he had accomplished most of whathe had wanted to do.

Noah reached for his guitar, remembering his father as he did so,thinking how much he missed him. He strummed once, adjusted thetension on two strings, then strummed again. This time it soundedabout right, and he began to play. Soft music, quiet music. Hehummed for a little while at first, then began to sing as night camedown around him. He played and sang until the sun was gone and thesky was black.

It was a little after seven when he quit, and he settled back intohis chair and began to rock. By habit, he looked upward and sawOrion and the Big Dipper, Gemini and the Pole Star, twinkling in theautumn sky.

He started to run the numbers in his head, then stopped. He knewhe'd spent almost his entire savings on the house and would have tofind a job again soon, but he pushed the thought away and decided toenjoy the remaining months of restoration without worrying about it.It would work out for him, he knew; it always did. Besides, thinkingabout money usually bored him. Early on, he'd learned to enjoysimple things, things that couldn't be bought, and he had a hardtime understanding people who felt otherwise. It was another traithe got from his father.

Clem, his hound dog, came up to him then and nuzzled his hand beforelying down at his feet. "Hey, girl, how're you doing?" he asked ashe patted her head, and she whined softly, her soft round eyespeering upward. A car accident had taken her leg, but she stillmoved well enough and kept him company on quiet nights like these.

He was thirty-one now, not too old, but old enough to be lonely. Hehadn't dated since he'd been back here, hadn't met anyone whoremotely interested him. It was his own fault, he knew. There wassomething that kept a distance between him and any woman who startedto get close, something he wasn't sure he could change even if hetried. And sometimes in the moments right before sleep came, hewondered if he was destined to be alone forever.

The evening passed, staying warm, nice. Noah listened to thecrickets and the rustling leaves, thinking that the sound of naturewas more real and aroused more emotion than things like cars andplanes. Natural things gave back more than they took, and theirsounds always brought him back to the way man was supposed to be.There were times during the war, especially after a majorengagement, when he had often thought about these simple sounds."It'll keep you from going crazy," his father had told him the dayhe'd shipped out. "It's God's music and it'll take you home."

He finished his tea, went inside, found a book, then turned on theporch light on his way back out. After sitting down again, he lookedat the book. It was old, the cover was torn, and the pages werestained with mud and water. It was Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman,and he had carried it with him throughout the war. It had even takena bullet for him once.

He rubbed the cover, dusting it off just a little. Then he let thebook open randomly and read the words in front of him:

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.

He smiled to himself. For some reason Whitman always reminded him ofNew Bern, and he was glad he'd come back. Though he'd been away forfourteen years, this was home and he knew a lot of people here, mostof them from his youth. It wasn't surprising. Like so many southerntowns, the people who lived here never changed, they just grew a bitolder.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from The Notebookby Nicholas Sparks Copyright ©1996 by Nicholas Sparks. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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