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The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks
In 1932； two North Carolina teenagers from opposite sides of the tracks fall in love。 Spending one idyllic summer together in the small town of New Bern； Noah Calhoun and Allie Nelson do not meet again for 14 years。 Noah has returned from WWII to restore the house of his dreams； having inherited a large sum of money。 Allie； programmed by family and the 〃caste system of the South〃 to marry an ambitious； prosperous man； has bee engaged to powerful attorney Lon Hammond。 When she reads a newspaper story about Noah's restoration project； she shows up on his porch step； re…entering his life for two days。 Will Allie leave Lon for Noah？ The book's slim dimensions and cliche…ridden prose will make parisons to The Bridges of Madison County inevitable。 What renders Sparks's （Wokini： A Lakota Journey of Happiness and Self…Understanding） sentimental story somewhat distinctive are two chapters； which take place in a nursing home in the '90s； that frame the central story。 The first sets the stage for the reading of the eponymous notebook； while the later one takes the characters into the land beyond happily ever after； a future rarely examined in books of this nature。 Early on； Noah claims that theirs may be either a tragedy or a love story； depending on the perspective。 Ultimately； the judgment is up to readers？be they cynics or romantics。 For the latter； this will be a weeper。
CHAPTER ONE – MIRACLES
WHO AM I？ And how； I wonder； will this story end？
The sun has e up and I am sitting by a window that is foggy with the 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 a thick sweater knitted by my daughter thirty birthdays ago。 The thermostat in my room is set as high as it will go； and a smaller space heater sits directly behind me。 II clicks and groans and spews hot air like a fairy…tale dragon； and still my body shivers with a cold that will never go away； a cold that has been eighty years in the making。 Eighty years。 I wonder if this is how it is for everyone my age。
My life？ It isn’t easy to explain。 It has not been the rip…roaring spectacular I fancied it would be； but neither have I burrowed around with the gophers。 I suppose it has most resembled a blue…chip stock： fairly stable； more ups than downs； and gradually trending upwards over time。 I’ve learned that not everyone can say this about his life。 But do not be misled。 I am nothing special； of this I am sure。 I am a mon man with mon thoughts； and I’ve led a mon life。 There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten； but I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul； and to me this has always been enough。
The romantics would call this a love story： the cynics would call it a tragedy。 In my mind it’s a little bit of both； and no matter how you choose to view it in the end； it does not change the fact that it involves a great deal of my life。 I have no plaints about the path I’ve chosen to follow and the places it has taken me—the path has always been the right one。 I wouldn’t have had it any other way。
Time； unfortunately doesn’t make it easy to stay on course。 The path is straight as ever； but now it is strewn with the rocks and gravel that accumulate over a lifetime。 Until three years ago it would have been easy to ignore； but it’s impossible now。 There is a sickness 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 is time to go。 I stand and shuffle across the room； stopping at the desk to pick up the notebook I have read a hundred times。 I slip it beneath my arm and continue on my way to the place I must go。
I walk on tiled floors； white speckled with grey。 Like my hair and the hair of most people here； though I’m the only one in the hallway this morning。 They are in their rooms； alone except for television； but they； like me； are used to it。 A person can get used to anything； given enough lime。
I hear the muffled sounds of crying in the distance and know who is making them。 The nurses see me and we smile and exchange greetings。 I am sure they wonder about me and the things that I go through every day。 I listen as they begin to whisper among themselves when I pass。
“There he goes again。” I hear。 “I hope it turns out well。” But they say nothing directly to me about it。
A minute later； I reach the room。 The door has been propped open for me； as it usually is。 There are two nurses in the room； and as I enter they say “Good morning” with cheery voices； and I take a moment to ask about the kids and the schools and uping vacations。 We talk above the crying for a minute or so。 They do not seem to notice： they have bee numb to it； but then again； so have I。
Afterwards I sit in the chair that has e to be shaped like me。 They are finishing up now； her clothes are on； but she is cry…ing。 It will bee quieter after they leave。 I know。 The excite…ment of the morning always upsets her； and today is no exception。 Finally the nurses walk out。 Both of them touch me and smile as they walk by。
I sit for just a second and stare at her； but she doesn’t return the look。 I understand； for she doesn’t know who I am。 I’m a stranger to her。 Then； turning away； I how my head and pray silently for the strength I know I will need。
Ready now。 On go the glasses； out of my pocket es a magnifier。 I put it on the table for a moment while I open the notebook。 It takes two licks on my gnarled finger to get the well…worn cover open to the first page。 Then I put the magnifier in place。
There is always a moment right before I begin to read the story when my 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。 And though you may call me a dreamer or a fool。 I believe that anything is possible。
I realize that the odds； and science； are against me。 But science is not the total answer。 This I know； this I have learned in my life…time。 And that leaves me with the belief that miracles； no matter how inexplicable or unbelievable； are real and can occur without regard to the natural order of things。 So once again； just as I do every day； I begin to read the notebook aloud； so that she can hear it； in the hope that the miracle that has e to dominate my life will once again prevail。
And maybe； just maybe； it will。
CHAPTER TWO GHOSTS
It was early October 1946； and Noah Calhoun watched the fading sun sink lower from the porch of his plantation…style Home。 He liked to sit here in the evenings； especially after working hard all day； and let his thoughts wander。 It was how he relaxed； a routine he’d learned from his father。
He especially liked to look at the trees and their reflections in the river。 North Carolina trees are beautiful in deep autumn： greens； yellows； reds； oranges； every shade in between； their dazzling colours glowing with the sun。
The house was built in 1772； making it one of the oldest； as well as largest； Homes in New Bern。 Originally it was the main house on a working plantation； and he had bought it right after the war ended and had spent the last eleven months and a small fortune repairing it。 The reporter from the Raleigh paper had done an arti…cle on it a few weeks ago and said it was one of the finest restor…ations he’d ever seen。 At least the house was。 The rest of the property was another story； and that was where Noah had spent most of the day。
The Home sat on twelve acres adjacent to Brices Creek； and he’d worked on the wooden fence that lined the other three sides of the property； checking for dry rot or termites； replacing posts where he had to。 He still had more work to do on the west side； and as he’d put the tools away earlier he’d made a mental note to call and have some more timber delivered。 He’d gone into the house； drunk a glass of sweet tea； then showered； the water washing away dirt and fatigue。
Afterwards he’d bed his hair back； put on some faded jeans and a long…sleeved blue shirt； poured himself another glass of tea and gone to the porch； where he sat every day at this time。
He reached for his guitar； remembering his father as he did so； thinking how much he missed him。 Noah strummed once； adjusted the tension on two strings； then strummed again； soft； quiet music。 He hummed at first； then began to sing as night came down around him。
It was a little after seven when he stopped and settled back into his rocking chair。 By habit； he looked upwards and saw Orion； the Big Dipper and the Pole Star； twinkling in the autumn sky。
He started to run the numbers in his head； then stopped。 He knew he’d spent almost his entire savings on the house and would have to find a job again soon； but he pushed the thought away and decided to enjoy the remaining months of restoration without worrying about it。 It would work out for him； he knew： it always did。
Cem； his hound dog； came up to him then and nuzzled his hand before lying down at his feet。 Hey girl； how’re you doing？” he asked as he patted her head； and she whined softly； her soft round eyes peering upwards。 A car accident had taken one of her legs； but she still moved well enough and kept him pany on nights like these。
He was thirty…one now； not too old； but old enough to be lonely。 He hadn’t dated since he’d been back here； hadn’t met anyone who remotely interested him； It was his own fault； he knew。 There was something that kept a distance between him and any woman who started to get close； something he wasn’t sure he could change even if he tried。 And sometimes； in the moments before sleep； he won…dered if he was destined to be alone for ever。
The evening passed； staying warm； nice。 Noah listened to the crickets and the rustling leaves； thinking that the sound of nature was more real and aroused more emotion than things like cars and planes。 Natural things gave back more than they took； and their sounds always brought him back to the way man was supposed to he。 There were times during the war； especially after a major engagement； when he had often thought about these simple sounds。 “It’ll keep you from going crazy；” his father had told him the day he’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 the porch light on his way back out。 After sitting down again； he looked at the book。 It was old； the cover was torn； and the pages were stained with mud and water。 It was Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman； and he had carried it with him throughout the war。 He let the book open randomly and read the words in front of him：
This is thy hour； 0 Soul； thy free flight into the wordless；
Away from hooks； away from art； the day erased； the lesson done；
Thee fully forth emerging； silent； gazing； ponderi