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And your numeral. But she didn't; she finished her thought: 'After all, it's part of what you are. She was still doing it.
But could I face the fact that I wasn't perfect? Christ, she had already faced my imperfection and her own. Christ, how unworthy I felt! I didn't know what the hell to say. She made a fist and then placed it gently against my cheek. I kissed it, and as I reached over to embrace her, she straight-armed me, and barked like a gun moll: 'Just drive, Preppie. Get back to the wheel and start speeding! My father's basic comment concerned what he considered excessive velocity. I forget his exact words, but I know the text for his sermon during our luncheon at the Harvard Club concerned itself primarily with my going too fast.
He warmed up for it by. I politely suggested that I was a grown man, that he should no longer correct - or even comment upon - my behavior. He allowed that even world leaders needed constructive criticism now and then. I took this to be a not-too-subtle allusion to his stint in Washington during the first Roosevelt Administration. But I was not about to set him up to reminisce about F.
So I shut up. We were, as I said, eating lunch in the Harvard Club of Boston. I too fast, if one accepts my father's estimate. This means we were surrounded by his people. His classmates, clients, admirers and so forth. I mean, it was a put-up job, if ever there was one.
If you really listened, you might hear some of them murmur things like, 'There goes Oliver Barrett. Only the very nonspecific nature of the talk was glaringly conspicuous. You've presented us with a fait accompli, have you not? And for a girl from her background to get all the way to Radcliffe. I mean, she's not some crazy hippie - ' 'She is not many things. The goddamn nitty gritty.
I told him so. As opposed to what? A boy? A girl? A mouse? Anyway, I stayed. The Sonovabitch derived enormous satisfaction from my remaining seated. I mean, I could tell he regarded it as another in his many victories over me. If this is real, it can stand the test of time. I was standing up to him. To his arbitrariness.
To his compulsion to dominate and control my life. Not legally an adult. As if to compensate for my loudness, Oliver III aimed his next words at me in a biting whisper: 'Marry her now, and I will not give you the time of day. After the debacle of introducing Jennifer to her potential in-laws 'Do I call them outlaws now?
I mean, here I would be bucking that lotsa love Italian-Mediterranean syndrome, compounded by the fact that Jenny was an only child, compounded by the fact that she had no mother, which meant abnormally close ties to her father. I would be up against all those emotional forces the psych books describe.
Plus the fact that I was broke. He comes to see Mr. Cavilleri, a wage-earning pastry chef of that city, and says, 'I would like to marry your only daughter, Jennifer. He would not question Barretto's love, since to know Jenny is to love Jenny; it's a universal truth. No, Mr. Cavilleri would say something like, 'Barretto, how are you going to support her? Cavilleri's reaction if Barretto informed him that the opposite would prevail, at least for the next three years: his daughter would have to support his son-in-law!
Would not the good Mr. Cavilleri show Barretto to the door, or even, if Barretto were not my size, punch him out? You bet your ass he would. This may serve to explain why, on that Sunday afternoon in May, I was obeying all posted speed limits, as we headed southward on Route Jenny, who had come to enjoy the pace at which I drove, complained at one point that I was going forty in a forty-five-mile-an-hour zone.
I told her the car needed tuning, which she believed not at all. I told him. He said okay. In English, because, as I told you and you don't seem to want to believe, he doesn't know a goddamn word of Italian except a few curses. Thank God, I understood that. I still needed clarification, though. I had to know what I was in for.
He was happy. He was. He had never expected, when he sent her off to Radcliffe, that she would return to Cranston to marry the boy next door who by the way had asked her just before she left. He was at first incredulous that her intended's name was really Oliver Barrett IV. He had then warned his daughter not to violate the Eleventh Commandment. Jenny lived on a street called Hamilton Avenue, a long line of wooden houses with many children in front of them, and a few scraggly trees.
Merely driving down it, looking for a parking space, I felt like in another country. To begin with, there were so many people. Besides the children playing, there were entire families sitting on their porches with apparently nothing better to do this Sunday afternoon than to watch me park my MG. Jenny leaped out first. She had incredible reflexes in Cranston, like some quick little grasshopper.
There was all but an organized cheer when the porch watchers saw who my passenger was. No less than the great Cavilleri! When I heard all the greetings for her, I was almost ashamed to get out. I mean, I could not remotely for a moment pass for the hypothetical Olivero Barretto. Capodilupo,' I heard Jenny bellow back. I climbed out of the car. I could feel the eyes on me.
Not too subtle around here, are they? Which did wonders for my confidence. Capodilupo in my direction, 'but the girl he's with is really something! She then turned to satisfy neighbors on the other side. She took my hand I was a stranger in paradise , and led me up the stairs to A Hamilton Avenue.
It was an awkward moment. I just stood there as Jenny said, 'This is my father. We shook and he had a strong grip. It was also a scary moment. Because then, just as he let go of my hand, Mr. Cavilleri turned to his daughter and gave this incredible shout: 'Jennifer! And then they were hugging. Very tight. Rocking to and fro.
All Mr. Cavilleri could offer by way of further comment was the now very soft repetition of his daughter's name: 'Jennifer. One thing about my couth upbringing helped me out that afternoon. I had always been lectured about not talking with my mouth full. Since Phil and his daughter kept conspiring to fill that orifice, I didn't have to speak.
I must have eaten a record quantity of Italian pastries. Afterward I discoursed at some length on which ones I had liked best I ate no less than two of each kind, for fear of giving offense , to the delight of the two Cavilleris. What did that mean? I didn't need to have 'okay' defined; I merely wished to know what of my few and circumspect actions had earned for me that cherished epithet.
Did I like the right cookies? Was my handshake strong enough? Cavilleri's daughter. Now I saw. I appreciate it. Really I do. And you know how I feel about your daughter, sir. And you, sir. Cavilleri interrupted, 'can you avoid the profanity? The sonovabitch is a guest! I can't. But I reject him too, Phil. It's rare. Jenny was getting up and down to serve, so she was not involved with most of this.
My father and I have installed a cold line. Believe me when I tell you he'll thaw. When it's time to go to church -' At this moment Jenny, who was handing out dessert plates, directed at her father a portentous monosyllable.
Then, leaping instantly to the wrong conclusion, he turned apologetically toward me. I mean, as Jennifer has no doubt told you, we are of the Catholic faith.
But, I mean, your church, Oliver. God will bless this union in any church, I swear. I want to be hit with everything on your minds. On anybody's God? And we won't be hypocrites. He might maybe have hit Jenny. But now he was the odd man out, the foreigner. He couldn't look at either of us. He looked at his daughter for verification. She nodded.
My statement was correct. After another long silence, he again said, 'That's fine. Jenny explained that the ceremony we had in mind would have the college Unitarian chaplain preside 'Ah, chaplain,' murmured Phil while the man and woman address each other. William F. It was no easier repeating it. You are in charge of Financial Aid, aren't you, Dean Thompson?
Your father - ' 'He's no longer involved, sir. Barrett,' he said. I wanted to say. This guy was beginning to piss me off. But that's why I've come to you, sir. I'm getting married next month. We'll both be working over the summer. Then Jenny - that's my wife - will be teaching in a private school.
That's a living, but it's still not tuition. Your tuition is pretty steep, Dean Thompson. But that's all.
Didn't this guy get the drift of my conversation? Why in hell did he think I was there, anyway? A third time. Thompson, hitting upon the technicality. The gory details, maybe? Was it scandal he wanted? Barrett, and I must tell you that I really don't think this office should enter into a family quarrel. A rather distressing one, at that. All sorts of relatives from Cranston, Fall River and even an aunt from Cleveland - flocked to Cambridge to attend the ceremony. On Thursday, I became Jenny's academic equal, receiving my degree from Harvard - like her own, magna cum laude.
Moreover, I was Class Marshal, and in this capacity got to lead the graduating seniors to their seats. This meant walking ahead of even the summas, the super-superbrains.
I was almost moved to tell these types that my presence as their leader decisively proved my theory that an hour in Dillon Field House is worth two in Widener Library. But I refrained. Let the joy be universal. More than seventeen thousand people jam into Harvard Yard on Commencement morning, and I certainly was not scanning the rows with binoculars. Obviously, I had used my allotted parent tickets for Phil and Jenny.
Of course, as an alumnus, Old Stonyface could enter and sit with the Class of ' But then why should he want to? I mean, - weren't the banks open? The wedding was that Sunday. Our reason for excluding Jenny's relatives was out of genuine concern that our omission of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost would make the occasion far too trying for unlapsed Catholics. Timothy Blauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided. Jenny asked a girl friend from Briggs Hall and - maybe for sentimental reasons - her tall, gawky colleague at the reserve book desk.
And of course Phil. I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil. I mean, just to keep him as loose as possible. Not that Stratton was all that calm! The pair of them stood there, looking tremendously uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing the other's preconceived notion that this 'do-it-yourself wedding' as Phil referred to it was going to be as Stratton kept predicting 'an incredible horror show. We had actually seen it done earlier that spring when one of Jenny's musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design student named Eric Levenson.
It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us on the idea, 'Are you two ready? Blauvelt to the others, 'we are here to witness the union of two lives in marriage. Let us listen to the words they have chosen to read on this sacred occasion. Jenny stood facing me and recited the poem she had selected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett: When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire.
From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes wide with amazement and adoration combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way a kind of prayer for A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death' hour rounding it. Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could read without blushing. I mean, I couldn't stand there and recite lace-doily phrases.
I couldn't. I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live? I finished, and there was a wonderful hush in the room. Then Ray Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I - ourselves - recited the marriage vows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish, till death do us part.
By the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man and wife. Upon reflection, our 'post-game party' as Stratton referred to it was pretentiously unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the champagne route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin's.
As I recall, Jim Cronin himself set us up with a round, as a tribute to 'the greatest Harvard hockey player since the Cleary brothers. I mean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for getting more so. I let Phil pick up the tab, a decision which later evoked one of Jenny's rare compliments about my intuition 'You'll be a human being yet, Preppie'.
It got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus, however. I mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny's, maybe mine too; I don't remember anything except that the moment was liquid.
Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus and we waited and waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome truth started to get to me. Usually it was just break even. And there's nothing romantic about it, either. Remember the famous stanza in Omar Khayyam? You know, the book of verses underneath the bough, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and so forth? Substitute Scott on Trusts for that book of verses and see how this poetic vision stacks up against my idyllic existence.
Ah, paradise? No, bullshit. All I'd think about is how much that book was could we get it secondhand? And then how we might ultimately scrounge up the dough to pay off our debts. Life changes. Even the simplest decision must be scrutinized by the ever vigilant budget committee of your mind.
It just means three bucks. That is, I sailed a thirty-six-foot Rhodes from seven in the morning till whenever my passengers had enough, and Jenny was a children's counselor. It was a place called the Pequod Boat Club in Dennis Port not far from Hyannis , an establishment that included a large hotel, a marina and several dozen houses for rent. In one of the tinier bungalows, I have nailed an imaginary plaque: 'Oliver and Jenny slept here when they weren't making love.
I simply say 'kind,' because I lack the vocabulary to describe what loving and being loved by Jennifer Cavilleri is like. Sorry, I mean Jennifer Barrett. Before leaving for the Cape, we found a cheap apartment in North Cambridge.
I called it North Cambridge, although the address was technically in the town of Somerville and the house was, as Jenny described it, 'in the state of disrepair. But what the hell can graduate students do? It's a seller's market. This dialogue was taking place upon our reentry in September. Speaking as a married woman, I consider this place to be unsafe at any speed.
Prove it. I scooped her in my arms and hauled her up five steps onto the porch. Upstairs, you turkey! This didn't make it easier for me to catch my breath. Scared you, didn't I? For a second there, I clutched. This is among the precious few moments I can recall in which the verb 'scrounge' has no relevance whatever. My illustrious name enabled us to establish a charge account at a grocery store which would otherwise have denied credit to students.
And yet it worked to our disadvantage at a place I would least have expected: the Shady Lane School, where Jenny was to teach. Jenny tried to dispel her illusions, but all she could get in addition to the already offered thirty-five hundred for the year was about two minutes of 'ho ho ho's. Miss Whitman thought Jenny was being so witty in her remarks about Barretts having to pay the rent just like other people. When Jenny recounted all this to me, I made a few imaginative suggestions about what Miss Whitman could do with her - ho ho ho - thirty-five hundred.
But then Jenny asked if I would like to drop out of law school and support her while she took the education credits needed to teach in a public school. I gave the whole situation a big think for about two seconds and reached an accurate and succinct conclusion: 'Shit. Just learn to like spaghetti. I learned to like spaghetti, and Jenny learned every conceivable recipe to make pasta seem like something else. What with our summer earnings, her salary, the income anticipated from my planned night work in the post office during Christmas rush, we were doing okay.
I mean, there were a lot of movies we didn't see and concerts she didn't go to , but we were making ends meet. I mean, socially both our lives changed drastically. We were still in Cambridge, and theoretically Jenny could have stayed with all her music groups. But there wasn't time. She came home from Shady Lane exhausted, and there was dinner yet to cook eating out was beyond the realm of maximum feasibility.
Meanwhile my own friends were considerate enough to let us alone. I mean, they didn't invite us so we wouldn't have to invite them, if you know what I mean. We even skipped the football games. As a member of the Varsity Club, I was entitled to seats in their terrific section on the fifty-yard line. But it was six bucks a ticker, which is twelve bucks. You can go without me.
I don't know a thing about football except people shout 'Hit 'em again,' which is what you adore, which is why I want you to goddamn go! When Robbie left our apartment, effusively grateful, Jenny asked if I wouldn't tell her again just who got to sit in the V. Club section, and I once more explained that it was for those who, regardless of age or size or social rank, had nobly served fair Harvard on the playing fields. Such as perhaps the subtle suggestion that although Soldiers Field holds 45, people, all former athletes would be seated in that one terrific section.
Old and young. Wet, dry - and even frozen. And was it merely six dollars that kept me away from the stadium those Saturday afternoons?
No; if she had something else in mind, I would rather not discuss it. I was in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival, a crucial precedent in criminal law.
Jenny was sort of waving the invitation to bug me. My mother addressed the envelope. Okay, so I did glance at it earlier. Maybe it had slipped my mind. I was, after all, in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival, and in the virtual shadow of exams. The point was she should have stopped haranguing me.
Nothing says he'll still be around when you're finally ready for the reconciliation. She sat down quietly, squeezing herself onto a corner of the hassock where I had my feet. Although she didn't make a sound, I quickly became aware that she was looking at me very hard.
I glanced up. She didn't raise her voice, though she usually did when I did. And by the time he's a freshman, you'll probably be in the Supreme Court! She then inquired how I could be so certain of that. I couldn't produce evidence. I mean, I simply knew our son would not resent me, I couldn't say precisely why.
As an absolute non sequitur, Jenny then remarked: 'Your father loves you too, Oliver. He loves you just the way you'll love Bozo.
But you Barretts are so damn proud and competitive, you'll go through life thinking you hate each other. My eyes returned to The State v. Percival and Jenny got up. But I've never deliberately hurt anyone. I don't think I could. I returned once again to The State v. She was at the telephone. What's the number?
I was not listening to Jenny. That is, I tried not to. She was in the same room, after all. Did the Sonovabitch answer the phone? Wasn't he in Washington during the week? That's what a recent profile in The New York Times said. Goddamn journalism is going downhill nowadays. How long does it take to say no? Somehow Jennifer had already taken more time than one would think necessary to pronounce this simple syllable.
Did she have to involve me in this? And why can't she get to the point and hang up? Can you just sit there and let your father bleed? But she was very upset. And it was upsetting me too. She must be going out of her mind! And trying not to cry. Ever,' I said with perfect calm. And now she was crying.
Nothing audible, but tears pouring down her face. And then she - she begged. I've never asked you for anything. Three of us just standing I somehow imagined my father being there as well waiting for something. For me? I couldn't do it. Didn't Jenny understand she was asking the impossible?
That I would have done absolutely anything else? As I looked at the floor, shaking my head in adamant refusal and extreme discomfort, Jenny addressed me with a kind of whispered fury I had never heard from her: 'You are a heartless bastard,' she said.
And then she ended the telephone conversation with my father, saying: 'Mr. Barrett, Oliver does want you to know that in his own special way. She had been sobbing, so it wasn't easy. I was much too astonished to do anything but await the end of my alleged 'message.
There is no rational explanation for my actions in the next split second. I plead temporary insanity. Correction: I plead nothing. I must never be forgiven for what I did. I ripped the phone from her hand, then from the socket - and hurled it across the room. The presentation of these conventions is divided into two sections. First I discuss the history of the romance genre in order to show the conventions of romance that have characterized the genre from its beginning.
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Find out more about OverDrive accounts. Love Story. Erich Segal. Oliver and Jenny - kindred spirits from different worlds - meet, talk, question, answer and fall for each other so deeply that no one, themselves included, can understand it. So instead of trying to understand it, they accept it and live it as best they can. It was based on the best-selling novel Love Story by Erich Segal. The above lines are from wiki. I did love this movie in spite of its tragic ending.
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