The Notebook (The Notebook #1)(50)

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.