Beautiful Paragraphs from Love Story by Erich Segal

I love "Love Story" by Erich Segal. This is usually the sentiment when I start reading the book. But, by the time I reach the end, I get dehydrated with swollen eyes. And before sleeping I decide that I won't read the book again. Ah well, every now and then I find it in my hands. I love almost all the conversations between the couple, Oliver and Jenny. Here are a few that are the best:

"What makes you so sure that I went to prep school?"

"You look stupid and rich," she said, removing her glasses.

"You're wrong," I protested. "I'm actually smart and poor."

"Oh, no, Preppie. I'm smart and poor."

She was staring straight at me. Her eyes were brown. Okay, may be I look rich, but I wouldn't let some 'Cliffie-even one with pretty eyes - call me dumb.

"What the hell makes you so smart?" I asked.

"I wouldn't go for coffee with you," she answered.

"Listen - I wouldn't ask you."

"That," she replied, "is what makes you stupid."

"Hey, Oliver, did I tell you that I love you?" she said.

"No, Jen."

"Why didn't you ask me?"

"I was afraid to, frankly."

"Ask me now."

"Do you love me, Jenny?"

She looked at me and wasn't being evasive when she answered: "What do you think?"

"Yeah. I guess. Maybe."

I kissed her neck.

"Oliver?"

"Yes?"

"I don't just love you..."

Oh, Christ, what was this?

"I love you very much, Oliver."

"Then don't leave me, Jenny. Please."

"What about my scholarship? What about Paris, which I've never seen in my whole goddamn life?"

"What about our marriage?"

It was I who spoke those words, although for a split second I wasn't sure I really had.

"Who said anything about marriage?"

"Me. I'm saying it now."

"You want to marry me?"

"Yes."

She tilted her head, did not smile, but merely inquired: "Why?"

I looked her straight in the eye.

"Because," I said.

"Oh," she said. "That's a very good reason."

"I can't pass judgment, Ollie. I just think it's part of it. I mean, I know I love not only you yourself. I love your name. And your numeral."

She looked away, and I thought maybe she was going to cry. But she didn't; she finished her thought:

"After all, it's part of what you are."

[When they rent a ghetto place in the city, and move in just after getting married]

"Carry me over the threshold," she said.

"You don't believe in that nonsense, do you?"

"Carry me, and I'll decide later."

Okay. I scooped her in my arms and hauled her up five steps onto the porch.

"Why'd you stop?" she asked.

"Isn't this the threshold?"

"I see our name by the bell."

"This is the not the official goddamn threshold. Upstairs, you turkey!"

It was twenty-four steps to our "official" homestead, and I had to pause about halfway to catch up the breath.

"Why are you so heavy?" I asked her.

"Did you ever think I might be pregnant?" she answered.

This didn't make it easier for me to catch my breath.

"Are you?" I could finally say.

"Hah! Scared you, didn't I?"

"Nah."

"Don't bullshit me, Preppie."

"Yeah. For a second there, I clutched."

I carried her the rest of the way.

This is among the precious few moments I can recall in which the verb "scrounge" has no relevance.

"Hey, listen you bitch," I said.

"What, you bastard?" she said.

"I owe you a helluva lot," I said sincerely.

"Not true, you bastard, not true," she answered.

"Not true?," I inquired, somewhat surprised.

"You owe me everything," she said.

"Screw Paris and music and all that crap you think you stole from me. I don't care, you sonovabitch. Can't you believe that?"

"No," I answered truthfully.

"Then get the hell out of here," she said. "I don't want you at my goddamn deathbed."

She meant it. I could tell when Jenny really meant something. So I bought permission to stay by telling a lie: "I believe you," I said.