Love Story!

daca tot am postat 4 minute cik din film...ma vad obligata sa anunt ca exista si o carte care bineinteles e incomparabila cu filmul in sine(e mai atragatoare)zic eu...ca si in multe alte cazuri de altfel!
Cartea se numeste Poveste de iubire/"Love Story" si e publicata sub semnatura lui Erich Segal,incepand in felul urmator: (english version)
"In the fall of my senior year, I got into the habit of studying at the Radcliffe library.
Not just to eye the cheese, although I admit that I liked to look. The place was quiet,
nobody knew me, and the reserve books were less in demand. The day before one of
my history hour exams, I still hadn’t gotten around to reading first book on the list, an
endemic Harvard disease, I ambled over to the reserve desk to get one of the tomes
that would bail me out on the morrow. There were two girls working there. One a tall
tennis-anyone type, the other a bespectacled mouse type. I opted for Minnie Four-
Eyes.
“Do you have The Waning of the Middle Ages!”
She shot a glance up at me.
“Do you have your own library?” she asked.
“Listen, Harvard is allowed to use the Radcliffe library.”
“I’m not talking legality, Preppie, I’m talking ethics. You guys have five
million books. We have a few lousy thousand.”
Christ, a superior-being type! The kind who think since the ratio of Radcliffe
to Harvard is five to one, the girls must be five times as smart. I normally cut these
types to ribbons, but just then I badly needed that goddamn book.
“Listen, I need that goddamn book.”
“Wouldja please watch your profanity, Preppie?”
“What makes you so sure 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, maybe 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.”
Let me explain why I took her for coffee. By shrewdly capitulating at the crucial
moment—i.e., by pretending that I suddenly wanted to—I got my book. And since
she couldn't leave until the library closed, I had plenty of time to absorb some pithy
phrases about the shift of royal dependence from cleric to lawyer in the late eleventh
century. I got an A minus on the exam, coincidentally the same grade I assigned to
Jenny's legs when she first walked from behind that desk. I can't say I gave her
costume an honor grade, however; it was a bit too Boho for my taste. I especially
loathed that Indian thing she carried for a handbag. Fortunately I didn't mention this,
as I later discovered it was of her own design.
We went to the Midget Restaurant, a nearby sandwich joint which, despite its name, is
not restricted to people of small stature. I ordered two coffees and a brownie with ice
cream (for her).
“I'm Jennifer Cavilleri,” she said, “an American of Italian descent.”
As if I wouldn't have known. “And a music major,” she added.
“My name is Oliver,” I said. “First or last?” she asked.>>