![]() As of 2020, Sparks is rumored to be working on a TV follow-up to the wildly successful film version of The Notebook. The author of over 20 novels (and 11 New York Times bestsellers) including A Walk to Remember, Nights in Rodanthe, and The Last Song, Sparks’s romantic books have been widely adapted into movies starring Rachel McAdams, Ryan Gosling, Miley Cyrus, Richard Gere, and numerous other lauded actors and actresses. The book hit The New York Times Best Seller list in its first week of publication, and Sparks’s career as a lauded writer of romance novels began. Sparks was an undiscovered writer when he sold The Notebook for $1 million advance in 1996. The town of New Bern would become the setting for Sparks’s first novel, The Notebook, which he wrote in his spare time while working in the pharmaceutical industry. Shortly thereafter, the two of them moved to New Bern, North Carolina-a place neither of them had ever been to. Sparks graduated early after meeting the woman who would become his wife in 1988. After graduating as the valedictorian of Bella Vista High School in Fair Oaks, California, Sparks enrolled at the University of Notre Dame. So I found myself continually shifting mood, from anger, a woman’s anger, into the delight one feels at whatever is alive, the delight of recognition.Born in Omaha, Nebraska, Nicholas Sparks and his family moved around the United States frequently as his father pursued graduate studies in Minnesota and California. “Willi allowed his spectacles to glitter across the room and said …” “Saul, standing foursquare and solid, grinning slightly - grinning derisively at his own seducer’s pose, drawled: Come’n baby, let’s fuck, I like your style.” I went on reading entries, first appalled by the cold ruthlessness of them then translating them, from knowing Saul, into life. Because what is left out of his diaries is vitality, life, charm. Or: I’m simply writing a record of what happened, I’m not making moral judgements about myself - well, whatever he said, it would be irrelevant. Or: I’m right to treat women the way I do. If Saul said, about his diaries, or, summing his younger self up from his later self: I was a swine, the way I treated women. ![]() That is, one’s self direct, not one’s self projected. Something strange happens when one writes about oneself. ![]() Then I remembered that when I read my notebooks I didn’t recognize myself. She saw herself, Anna, seated on the music-stool, writing, writing making an entry in one book, then ruling it off, or crossing it out she saw the pages patterned with different kinds of writing divided, bracketed, broken - she felt a swaying nausea and then saw Tommy, not herself, standing with his lips pursed in concentration, turning the pages of her orderly notebooks. Instead she saw her room, long, white, subdued, with the coloured notebooks on the trestle table. So try again: Who am I, Anna? Now she did not think of Janet, but shut her out. But that’s terrible, she thought, her fear becoming worse. What then am I, Anna? - something that is necessary to Janet. She was thinking: If someone cracks up, what does that mean? At what point does a person about to fall to pieces say: I’m cracking up? And if I were to crack up, what form would it take? Anna, Anna, I am Anna, she kept repeating and anyway, I can’t be ill or give way, because of Janet I could vanish from the world tomorrow, and it wouldn’t matter to anyone except to Janet. Those fishermen in Scotland were a different species from the coalminers I stayed with in Yorkshire and both come from a different world than the housing estate outside London. Inside this country, Britain, the middle-class have no knowledge of the lives of the working-people, and vice-versa and reports and articles and novels are sold across the frontiers, are read as if savage tribes were being investigated. It is a blind grasping out for their own wholeness, and the novel-report is a means towards it. Human beings are so divided, are becoming more and more divided, and more subdivided in themselves, reflecting the world, that they reach out desperately, not knowing they do it, for information about other groups inside their own country, let alone about groups in other countries. The novel has become a function of the fragmented society, the fragmented consciousness. Most novels, if they are successful at all, are original in the sense that they report the existence of an area of society, a type of person, not yet admitted to the general literate consciousness.
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