Spellbinder's Gift: A Novel - Softcover

Mandino, Og

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0449912248 ISBN 13: 9780449912249

Verlag: Random House Publishing Group, 1996

Inhaltsangabe

The miraculous story of a loving couple, their never-to-be-forgotten friend, a little girl, and a very special teddy bear . . . 

Retired from his long, successful career as an agent to many of the most famous and dynamic motivational speakers in the world, Bart Manning was happily enjoying his newfound freedom with his lovely wife, Mary. So why, one morning, did he find himself headed back to the little office that he had never given up? He didn't know. But as he sat at his dusty desk, he decided to go back into business. If God had sent him there, Bart told himself, he would wait for His plan to unfold. 

Then, at a crowded convention, he found his answer in the person of a handsome young man named Patrick Donne, whose deep, commanding voice spoke words of profound wisdom that electrified the audience. With the thrill of discovery, Bart recognized Donne's short speech as the best inspirational talk he had ever heard. Bart was soon caught up in the extraordinary realm that was Patrick's ordinary world, where even tragedy and sorrow became transforming experiences and remarkable things happened. . . .

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Og Mandino is one of the most widely read inspirational and self-help authors in the world. Former president of Success Unlimited magazine, Mandino was the first recipient of the Napoleon Hill Gold Medal Award for literary achievement. Og Mandino was a member of the Council of Peers Award for Excellence Speaker Hall of Fame and was honored with a Master of Influence Award by the National Speakers Association. Og Mandino died in 1996, but his books continue to inspire countless thousands all over the world.

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In his long and successful career as an agent to many of the most famous and dynamic motivational speakers in the world, Bart Manning had no peer. But when a series of misfortunes silenced the voices of his star clients, he happily retired. He'd had his last innings, and with his lovely wife, Mary, was enjoying his newfound freedom.
So why, one morning, did he find himself headed back to the little office that he had never given up? He didn't know. But as he sat at his dusty desk, he decided to go back into business. If God had sent him there, Bart told himself, he would wait for His plan to unfold.
Then, at a crowded convention, he found his answer, in the person of a handsome young man named Patrick Donne, whose deep, commanding voice spoke words of profound wisdom that electrified the audience. With the thrill of discovery, Bart recognized Donne's short speech as the best inspirational talk he had ever heard. Bart was soon caught up in the extraordinary realm that was Patrick's ordinary world, where even tragedy and sorrow became transforming experiences and remarkable things happened. . . .

"From the Hardcover edition.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

I
 
 
For more than forty years, going back to the days when our young American boys were dying in a mysterious far-off place called Korea, Guys and Dolls was lighting up Broadway, cold sufferers were learning to love antihistamines, Dr. Kinsey had most of us talking openly about sex, Brando was flexing his muscles in A Streetcar Named Desire and we finally ended our Berlin airlift after almost 300,000 flights of mercy … for four memorable decades from a small second-story walk-up office not far from Times Square I had served as exclusive booking agent to many of the most famous and dynamic motivational speakers in the entire world.
 
And then, with little advance warning, the entire roster of uniquely talented individuals that I had developed and represented loyally for so long vanished in less than twelve months! My three oldest professional speakers decided that they had endured enough plane flights and hotel meals and would stay home, live off their fat mutual-fund portfolios and write their memoirs, another developed cancer of the throat, one had a stroke that paralyzed most of his left side and my four most in-demand and highest-priced speakers, all close friends of mine, passed away.
 
On that very sad and bleak February morning, after I had served as a pallbearer for the fourth time in seven months, I returned to my office both physically and emotionally drained, gathered up my most important papers and files and locked the door behind me, quite certain that my business and professional future had been buried along with the bodies of my friends. I was sixty-eight.
 
A year or so later I was still trying very hard to enjoy many of the activities that retirees who can afford it are usually doing to fill their hours and enrich their so-called golden years. Mary and I joined a Manhattan bridge club, played golf often during the week and even began attending movie matinees. My helpmate, bless her heart, did more than her share to make retirement for us the heaven on earth that so many dream about. We traveled, we competed in slot-machine tournaments in Reno and Atlantic City, fished in the blue waters off Bermuda, ate peanuts and drank beer at Yankee Stadium, visited scores of museums and cheered the horses and greyhounds in Florida. Still, every now and then, in the midst of some activity, the lady I had been married to for almost forty-five years would cup my face in the palms of her two tiny hands, cock her pretty head and say, “You’re bored, aren’t you?”
 
I would always shake my head, kiss her on the forehead and reply, “Of course not,” but after two people have loved each other as long as we have, there’s not much sense in trying to lie.
 
There was one activity from my pre-retirement days that I still continued to enjoy and probably needed a lot more since becoming an unemployed “couch potato,” and that was jogging. Every morning at dawn, for more than thirty years, if I was in town and the weather allowed, I had always followed the same routine. I’d ease myself out of bed slowly so that I wouldn’t wake Mary, climb into one of my many warm-up suits, consume a large glass of orange juice, cereal and a single cup of black coffee, make certain I had my keys, and close the door quietly as I departed.
 
Central Park was only two blocks west of our Park Avenue apartment, and through the years I had probably jogged over every foot of its roads, trails and pathways, alternating my course from time to time so that I could enjoy all the park’s wonders from Cleopatra’s Needle to Strawberry Fields, from the Belvedere Castle to Shakespeare Garden, from the Pond to the Great Lawn.
 
The park’s eight-hundred-plus acres, set in the heart of the busiest and noisiest metropolis in the western world, was my heaven on earth, my constant refuge from all the pressures and cares of life and business. Through the years I habitually timed my run to last just about an hour, usually emerging through the Artists’ Gate on Central Park South. I would then turn left, pass through the cool green area known as Grand Army Plaza, cross Fifth Avenue when the traffic lights allowed and continue jogging east for two more blocks before turning north on Park Avenue, gradually slowing my pace until I finally arrived at our apartment building.
 
Mary was always up by the time I returned each morning, and after I had showered, shaved and dressed, I would spend some time with her and another cup of coffee before either walking or taking a cab to my office on West 44th Street, depending on what was on tap for the day. Since my retirement, however, I would usually just crawl into my blue jeans and a sports shirt, after showering and shaving, and together we would watch the morning news and “The Today Show.” However, being a witness to the world in action on television while I sat passively on my duff and struggled with the morning’s crossword puzzle in The New York Times was just not my idea of what I should be doing with the rest of my days.
 
And then, on a hot and humid early June morning that I shall never forget, my life suddenly took an unexpected turn. I’m not sure I understand what happened, even to this day. Someone once wrote that God seems to play chess with all of us from time to time. He will make moves on our personal chessboard of life and then sit back, waiting to see if we react, how we react and what our next move will be, if any.
 
“Use it while you have it!”
 
“Tomorrow is found only on the calendars of fools!”
 
“It’s a lot later than you think!”
 
He was wearing a tattered red T-shirt and stained blue jeans and his right foot, sockless, protruded through a gash in a grimy, untied sneaker. Unkempt hair, dingy gray and streaked with yellow, hung limply below his shoulders. His large and sallow face was etched with heavy dark lines, scarred by several blotches of purple and his deep-set eyes, beneath bushy eyebrows, were bloodshot, but the voice screeching out those old maxims was strong and commanding. He was sitting in a wheelchair, dangerously close to the curb, on the sidewalk at the corner of Central Park South and Fifth Avenue. As I completed my morning in the park, saluted the statue of Simón Bolívar and turned east toward Fifth Avenue on my way home, he was directly in my path.
 
Central Park South and Fifth is a busy corner at almost any hour of the day, but in this morning rush period the wide side-walk is always packed with a constant parade of briefcase-carrying men and women, one horde heading north and the other south, eyes staring straight ahead as if they were all hypnotized, pushing and scurrying as they dodge the smaller group of marchers moving east and west … all heading toward their own little high-rise cubicles of aggravation. As I drew closer to the noisy and frightening apparition coiled in his wheelchair, I could see that he was holding a small, tattered Bible in one gnarled fist and a metal cup in the other. To my amazement, instead of working the commuter crowd in general, he was directing his hoarse words and gestures solely toward me! Hesitantly I slowed my pace as I approached and he raised his old Bible, aimed it right at my head as if it were a weapon and shouted, “Do it now! You! You! Do it now!”
 
He was directly in my path as I neared my Fifth Avenue crosswalk, waving toward me—me!—with both hands and yelling, “You! You must pick them today! You must pick them today! They will not be blooming tomorrow! They never bloom tomorrow!” Even a few sophisticated commuters were now...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Random House Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 1996
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0449912248
• ISBN 13: 9780449912249
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 209
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Buchpark GmbH; gpsr@buchpark.de; ; Krügerweg 1; Trebbin; Brandenburg; 14959; Deutschland