1. At one point in the novel Gus says to Noah, “My daddy used to tell me ‘the first time you fall in love, it changes your life forever, and no matter how hard you try, the feelin’ never goes away. This girl you been tellin’ me about was your first love. And no matter what you do, she’ll stay with you forever.’ ” Do you think this is true? Can you still remember your first love?
2. The restored house Noah lives in plays an integral role in the novel. In fact, an article about the restoration is what draws Allie back to New Bern. What do you think the house represents? What does this say about the importance of place? Does Noah restore anything else in this novel?
3. When Allie decides to come down to see Noah “one last time,” do you think she wanted to see him just to say good-bye, or was she secretly hoping to fall in love with him again? Was it right for Allie, who had already agreed to marry Lon, to make this visit? Would your answer be different if she were already married?
4. When asked by her mother, Allie claims to love both Noah and Lon. Do you think this is true? While it is possible to love more than one person equally, is it possible to be
in
love with two people at the same time?
5. Allie’s mother regrets having hid Noah’s letters to Allie for so many years. Why does Allie’s mother change her mind, especially when Allie’s wedding is less than three weeks away? Can you understand Allie’s mother’s motivation for hiding the letters in the first place? As a parent, wasn’t she responsible for watching out for her daughter?
6. Were you at all surprised when it is revealed that Allie had decided to marry Noah, or was there never any question in your mind?
7. Noah and Allie’s love for each other at the end of the novel seems as pure and as powerful as it was in the beginning. Is it possible for the intensity of first love to last that long? Is it unrealistic to expect it to?
8. Although he’s not in the best shape himself, Noah goes to Allie’s bedside and reads “The Notebook” to her every day. As a result, Allie is in much better shape than the other Alzheimer’s patients. Do you think this is plausible? Is her stable health a result of her hearing the story of her life every day, or are there greater forces at work? What does Noah’s devotion suggest about marriage? About the nature of love itself ?
9. The letters Noah and Allie write to each other, the poems they share, “The Notebook” Noah reads to Allie every day are all integral parts of this novel. And during World War II, a book of poetry actually saves Noah’s life. What does this suggest about the power of the written word? Why is this power such an important part of
The Notebook
?
10.
The Notebook
has been a bestseller not only in America, but around the world. Why do you think this is? What is it about the book that speaks to such a broad range of people?
Nicholas Sparks on Nicholas Sparks
I was born in Omaha, Nebraska, on New Year’s Eve, a scant eighty minutes prior to 1966. As fate would have it, my father was a bartender at the time and was scheduled to work that night, usually the busiest night of the year. Short on tip money but long on pride, he demanded the finest obstetrician in Omaha, and I was brought into this world for $124, which covered not only my care, but two days in the hospital for my mother.
I led a largely nomadic life in the beginning—my father was still a student, working to get into a master’s program, and he was eventually accepted at the University of Minnesota. I spent two years there and my memory of the place is limited. I had a dog named Pepper, a cardboard-box train I liked to sit in, and I remember picking bugs off the grill of the moving van when we finally left for Los Angeles in the summer of 1969.
Los Angeles—my home for four years while my father went to the University of Southern California for his Ph.D.—is also fairly shadowy. I remember getting hit in the head with a brick thrown by an eighteen-year-old thug, I learned to ride a bike (losing only one tooth in the process), and unfortunately my pet turtle committed suicide by diving off our second-floor patio. In 1973, I went to Grand Island, Nebraska, for a year with my mom (and brother and sister) while my dad did his thesis, then we all returned to Fair Oaks, California, on December 1, 1974. I remember very clearly that
Kolchack, the Night Stalker
was on television the moment we arrived at our new house. Perhaps that’s why I seem to associate Darrin Mc-Gavin with my adopted hometown.
I survived elementary school, that’s the best way to describe it. My first teacher had flaming red hair; a big, round face; and a fondness for Nile green evening dresses that draped her rather large body. I flunked English, but since my paper-maché volcano spewed purple lava (baking soda, vinegar, and food coloring), my creativity was deemed impressive and I was allowed to continue up the educational ladder.
High school was better. For some reason, my brain kicked in when I was fourteen, and I never received a grade lower than an A. I ended up as the valedictorian, but I couldn’t give the commencement address. I was due in Los Angeles (again) for the state track meet. I hold a number of school records at my high school, and received a full track scholarship to the University of Notre Dame. Life was good in high school. Damn good.
Then, as it often does, my life took a U-turn, and things got tough. I got injured, went a little insane, and after breaking the Notre Dame record in the 4 x 800 relay (at the Drake relays—a record that still stands), I spent the rest of the year icing my Achilles tendon. On summer break back home after my freshman year, icing my tendon and moping around the house, my mom said, “Do something—don’t just pout.”
I asked “What?”
She shrugged and said, “I don’t know . . . write a book.”
“Fine,” I said, and eight weeks later, I was the proud creator of my first novel—
The Passing,
a book that was never published. I laid it to rest in a literary graveyard of sorts—my attic—and it’s still there, next to my football card collection. In all honesty, it’s a wonderful story—except for the writing. That was the humble birth of my Faulknerian career.
Fast-forward through college—good friends, lots of football games, too much beer—until March 1988. I met a girl—Cathy—on spring break in Florida. She was from New Hampshire and it was love at first sight. I told her the day after we met that we would be married someday. She laughed at me and told me to get another drink.
In July 1989, we married.
Nineteen eighty-nine was also the year that I wrote my second novel,
The Royal Murders.
Better writing this time—wonderful dialogue, but too damn long. It’s also in the attic, filed with rejection slips. I decided to concentrate on another career. Since I was rejected not only by publishers but law school as well, I went through a number of short-term jobs looking for something that captivated my interest. I appraised real estate, bought and restored houses, waited tables, sold dental products by phone, and finally started my own business (manufacturing orthopedic products). Although I knew nothing about the medical field or engineering—my science education began and ended with Biology 101—I put myself in charge of everything. Thirty-thousand dollars in credit-card debt later, I realized my folly, big as a whale. Being a Capricorn, I had no choice but to take a deep breath, roll up my sleeves, and avoid the evil-death-ray stares that my wife was laser beaming into the back of my head. I pressed on, and eventually it worked out— sort of. After two and a half long,
long
years, I broke even. We celebrated our smashing success wildly and without care, and nine months later Miles Andrew was born.
During this time I wrote yet another book,
Wokini,
with Billy Mills, a long-time friend and Olympic gold medalist, and it was published by Feather Publishing, a small outfit in Sacramento. It did well regionally and was picked up by Random House in 1994. Success at last!
Eventually, I sold my business and looked around for something to do while I was still breathing.
Pharmaceutical Sales,
the ad read. “Okay,” I said, and it’s really been a good choice. The hours are good, the pay is good, and I only see my boss once a month. Couldn’t ask for anything more. I asked for and received a transfer from Sacramento to New Bern, North Carolina, and in December 1992 we moved across the country to a place we’d never seen. We celebrated our arrival with champagne and candles, and nine months later Ryan Cody was born.
Midtwenties life check. Good job, nice wife, kids, beautiful house overlooking a creek—what more could there be? In May 1993, I found out.
Cheers,
the television show, broadcast its final episode. Bob Costas did an hour-long show prior to the episode, and I remember lying awake most of the night after it aired.
Cheers
had been on for eleven years—an entire era of my life—and yet, I still hadn’t fulfilled my dreams. At 4:00 A.M., I knew I had to give writing another shot. A good one though, not a half-hearted effort like before. I researched the market, decided on my topic (a love story), conjured up a couple of characters based on my wife’s grandparents, and thought about my plot for almost two months before writing a word. At the time, Alzheimer’s was big in the news, and I decided that would be the “vehicle” I would use to create a sense of tragedy necessary for a quality love story. I typed out 80,000 words, cut it by 28,000 words, and in January 1995 I finished the book.
In February, my company transferred my family from New Bern to Greenville, South Carolina. I put the book on hold till I had a permanent address, sent out letters to twenty-five agents in July, and signed with Theresa Park of Sanford Greenburger Associates. On October 19, the book arrived in New York and on October 23, 1995, at 12:02 P.M., my life changed forever. At that moment, I remember, I was serving fried chicken to a group of nurses.
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Nicholas Sparks!
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The Wedding
Nicholas Sparks’s long-awaited sequel to
The Notebook.
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I
s it possible, I wonder, for a man to truly change? Or do character and habit form the immovable boundaries of our lives?
I ponder these questions as I watch a moth flail wildly against the porch light. I’m alone outside. My wife, Jane, didn’t stir when I slipped out of bed. Midnight has come and gone, and there’s a crispness in the air that holds the promise of an early winter. I notice that my hands are trembling before I bury them in the pockets of my heavy cotton robe.
Above me, the stars are specks of silver paint on a charcoal canvas. I see Orion and the Pleiades, Ursa Major and Corona Borealis; somehow I feel I should be inspired by the realization that I’m not only looking at the stars, but staring into the past as well. Constellations shine with light that was emitted aeons ago, and I wait for something to come to me, words that a poet might use to illuminate life’s mysteries. But there is nothing.
This doesn’t surprise me. I’ve never considered myself a sentimental man, and if you asked my wife, I’m sure she would agree. I do not lose myself in films or plays, I’ve never been a dreamer, and if I aspire to any art form at all, it is one defined by rules of the Internal Revenue Service and codified by law. For the most part, my days and years as an estate lawyer have been spent in the company of those preparing for their own death, and I suppose that some might say that my life is an exercise in banality because of this. But even if they’re right, what can I do? I make no excuses for myself, and by the end of my story, I hope you’ll view my character flaws with a forgiving eye.
Please don’t misunderstand. I may not be sentimental, but I’m not completely without emotion and there are moments when I’m struck by a deep sense of wonder. It is usually simple things that I find strangely moving: standing among the giant sequoias in the John Muir National Forest, for instance, or watching ocean waves as they crash together off Cape Hatteras, sending salty plumes into the sky. Last week, I felt my throat tighten when I watched a young boy reach for his father’s hand as they strolled down the sidewalk. There are other things too: I can sometimes lose track of time when staring at a sky filled with wind-whipped clouds, and when I hear thunder rumbling, I always draw near the window to watch for lightning. When the next brilliant flash illuminates the sky, I sometimes find myself filled with longing, though I’m at a loss to tell you what it is that I feel my life is missing.
My name is Wilson Lewis, and this is the story of a wedding. It is also the story of my marriage, and despite the thirty years that Jane and I have spent together, I suppose I should begin by admitting that others know far more about marriage than I. A man can learn nothing by asking my advice. It pains me to admit that I’ve been blind and stubborn and dumb as a goldfish in the course of my marriage. Yet, looking back, if I’ve done one thing right, it has been to love my wife deeply throughout our years together. While this may strike some as a given, I suppose you should know that there was a time when I was certain that my wife didn’t feel the same way about me.
Of course, all marriages go through ups and downs: Between us, my wife and I have lived through the deaths of both of my parents, one of hers, and the sickness of her father. We’ve moved four times, and though I’ve been successful in my profession, there were many sacrifices made in order to secure this position—sacrifices that in retrospect seem impossibly costly. We have three children and while neither of us would trade the experience of parenthood for the riches of Tutankhamen, the sleepless nights and frequent trips to the hospital when they were infants left both of us exhausted and often overwhelmed. It goes without saying that their teenage years were an experience I would rather not relive.
All of those events create their own stresses, and when two people live together, the stress flows both ways. This, I’ve come to believe, is both the blessing and the curse of marriage. It’s a blessing because there’s an outlet for the everyday strains of life; it’s a curse because the outlet is someone you care deeply about.