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Zusatztext “[Robert] Parker writes with economy and precision and wit and passion. . . . Love and Glory [is] one of the best love stories I've ever encountered.” — The Press-Chronicle “A straightforward! unrelenting! shamelessly romantic novel that's about a two-year obsession. . . . It works . . . [and] love stories that work are almost an extinct breed. Almost.” — Santa Cruz Sentinel “Parker's writing is like fine architecture or music—it's both intricate and direct. There are no false notes.” — Chicago Sun-Times Informationen zum Autor Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, novels featuring Chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole/Everett Hitch westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, Parker died in January 2010. Klappentext Boone Adams: He was so smart he wrote half the English papers for the freshman class, when he wasn't getting drunk at night and waking up hung over in the morning. To him life was full of promise . . . just the ones it didn't intend to keep. Jennifer Grayle: She was the campus golden girl, so rich, so pretty, that every boy wanted to take her out. Except Boone. He wanted to marry her. John Merchent: He was tall and blond with blue eyes and a cleft in his chin like Cary Grant's. He didn't have Boone's lively imagination, but he had something else: Jennifer. Praise for Love and Glory "[Robert] Parker writes with economy and precision and wit and passion. . . . Love and Glory [is] one of the best love stories I've ever encountered."-The Press-Chronicle "A straightforward, unrelenting, shamelessly romantic novel that's about a two-year obsession. . . . It works . . . [and] love stories that work are almost an extinct breed. Almost."-Santa Cruz Sentinel "Parker's writing is like fine architecture or music-it's both intricate and direct. There are no false notes."-Chicago Sun-TimesCHAPTER ONE In memory it seems someone else, a boy in a glen plaid suit and a lime green shirt chewing gum with a cigarette behind his ear while he danced awkwardly with a girl who made his stomach buzz, and Frankie Laine sang “Black Lace” on the record player. But it wasn’t someone else, it was me, or at least the beginning of me. It was the evening I was born: an embryonic kid with his hair slicked back, I danced, for the first time, with Jennifer Grayle; and the flowering of my soul was forever wed to a vision of possibility so gorgeous and unspeakable that even now it seems a trick of time and memory. No child could have felt what I felt. And yet … the buzz in my stomach has buzzed for thirty years and buzzes still, an implacable thrill of passion and purpose that has galvanized me like the touch of God’s finger on Adam’s inert hand. As we danced at that freshman dance in the early fall of 1950, it was as if the still serpentless meadows of Eden spread out around us. We are east of Eden now, full of knowledge. We know that lambs and lions will not gambol, if they ever did, in a green eternity. But we know much more than that, and some of what we know is worth mortality. I had gone from an unaffluent city up to Colby College in September of 1950, virginal, full of fantasy, and nearly devoid of social graces, to major in English and become a writer. I wasn’t scared. I’d been away before. I knew I’d make friends, but I was frightened of girls and the freshman dance made me anxious. None of us knew one another yet. We had no gang to hang with in a corner, to play to as we danced. No one whose approval we had tested and could count on. My name tag, pinned to my wide lapels, said HI, MY NAME’S BOONE ADAMS, WHAT’S YOURS? Wearing it made me feel like a perf...
