Eat Pray Love: One Woman's Search For Everything Across Italy, India And Indonesia by Elizabeth GilbertEat Pray Love: One Woman's Search For Everything Across Italy, India And Indonesia by Elizabeth Gilbert

Eat Pray Love: One Woman's Search For Everything Across Italy, India And Indonesia

byElizabeth Gilbert

Paperback | June 29, 2010

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A transformational journey through Italy, India, and Bali searching for pleasure and devotion—the massive bestseller from the author of Big Magic, on sale now!

This beautifully written, heartfelt memoir touched a nerve among both readers and reviewers. Elizabeth Gilbert tells how she made the difficult choice to leave behind all the trappings of modern American success (marriage, house in the country, career) and find, instead, what she truly wanted from life. Setting out for a year to study three different aspects of her nature amid three different cultures, Gilbert explored the art of pleasure in Italy and the art of devotion in India, and then a balance between the two on the Indonesian island of Bali. By turns rapturous and rueful, this wise and funny author (whom Booklist calls “Anne Lamott’s hip, yoga- practicing, footloose younger sister”) is poised to garner yet more adoring fans.
Look out for Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, on sale now! Gilbert is the #1 New York Times bestselling author ofEat Pray Love and several other internationally bestselling books of fiction and nonfiction. She began her career writing for Harper's Bazaar, Spin, The New York Times Magazine and GQ, an...
Title:Eat Pray Love: One Woman's Search For Everything Across Italy, India And IndonesiaFormat:PaperbackDimensions:352 pages, 8.37 × 5.4 × 0.74 inPublished:June 29, 2010Publisher:Penguin Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0143118420

ISBN - 13:9780143118428

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Rated 4 out of 5 by from Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert ome people that read this book found the main character (the author) quite annoying. I, on the other hand didn’t find this was the case. Her character is what made the story interesting whether people realize that or not. Because of her flamboyancy and the way she handled things, as well as how she ranted on about things. I started this book not really having any idea what it would be like, and I found reading Gilbert’s story was very inspiring. Travelling is something I have always wanted to do so learning about the places she went was pretty cool. The fact that it’s divided into three separate parts each for one place and one task – as you can see by the title – sat well in my mind. Even though I do more eating than praying or loving, each section I felt I could connect with in some way. Because the novel is realistic it was more appealing to me, especially the parts in India where Liz was meditating. Overall it was an interesting life story about a curious woman, who finally got the happiness she wanted in the end. I think I’ll give it a great 4 OUT OF 5. I had fun with the story. Check out my book review blog!
Date published: 2013-02-04
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Eat Pray Love First of all, let me state that I was very hesitant to read this book. I'm not generally into "chick lit". I mean, you'll never catch me with a Danielle Steele book in my hand and threw the first Shopoholic book down in digust a third of the way through; and I almost never give up on a book once I start it. The other thing that made me hesitate was that I was afraid that it would be preachy. I hate being told what to think or how to live which is why I don't get along well with religion as a general rule. I was very relieved, however, to discover that this book wasn't like that at all. It was an honest, sometimes brutally honest, and open recounting of Liz's journey from total despair and near-suicide to happiness and self-acceptance. She tells us her own understanding of the world and of God and how that evolved and continues to evolve as well as some of the teachings of those that she seeks out but never attempts to tell us that her way is THE right way. I was surprised to find that she and I share a lot of the same ideas about God and spirituality. Her story has given me a lot to think about and has made me look at myself in a different way. She also recounts her revelation that it's okay to do some things just for the pleasure of it. She spends four months in Italy doing just that. Her heart and psyche were so heavy with the burdens of life that she had forgotten to love herself until she learned to let go. It's something that more us need to learn. I have to admit that what she did is certainly unrealistic for most of us. I mean, how many of us are privileged enough to be able to walk away from our lives for a year to "find ourselves". This doesn't mean that we can't be inpired by her though. There are so many small things that can take away from this. What is wrong with enrolling in a class just for the fun of it; a new language, cooking, painting, poetry..........something that makes our heart soar....... Yes she has given me something to think about, right at a time when I really needed it too. Fate? I'm really glad that I overcame my hesitation and picked up the book. I recommend it to everone.
Date published: 2010-08-18

Read from the Book

1I wish Giovanni would kiss me.Oh, but there are so many reasons why this would be a terrible idea. To begin with, Giovanni is ten years younger than I am, and, like most Italian guys in their twenties, he still lives with his mother. These facts alone make him an unlikely romantic partner for me, given that I am a professional American woman in my mid-thirties, who has just come through a failed marriage and a devastating, interminable divorce, followed immediately by a passionate love affair that ended in sickening heartbreak. This loss upon loss has left me feeling sad and brittle and about seven thousand years old. Purely as a matter of principle I wouldn't inflict my sorry, busted-up old self on the lovely, unsullied Giovanni. Not to mention that I have finally arrived at that age where a woman starts to question whether the wisest way to get over the loss of one beautiful brown-eyed young man is indeed to promptly invite another one into her bed. This is why I have been alone for many months now. This is why, in fact, I have decided to spend this entire year in celibacy.To which the savvy observer might inquire: 'Then why did you come to Italy?'To which I can only reply—especially when looking across the table at handsome Giovanni— 'Excellent question.'Giovanni is my Tandem Exchange Partner. That sounds like an innuendo, but unfortunately it's not. All it really means is that we meet a few evenings a week here in Rome to practice each other's languages. We speak first in Italian, and he is patient with me; then we speak in English, and I am patient with him. I discovered Giovanni a few weeks after I'd arrived in Rome, thanks to that big Internet cafÈ at the Piazza Barbarini, across the street from that fountain with the sculpture of that sexy merman blowing into his conch shell. He (Giovanni, that is—not the merman) had posted a flier on the bulletin board explaining that a native Italian speaker was seeking a native English speaker for conversational language practice. Right beside his appeal was another flier with the same request, word-for-word identical in every way, right down to the typeface. The only difference was the contact information. One flier listed an e-mail address for somebody named Giovanni; the other introduced somebody named Dario. But even the home phone number was the same.Using my keen intuitive powers, I e-mailed both men at the same time, asking in Italian, "Are you perhaps brothers?"It was Giovanni who wrote back this very provocativo message: "Even better. Twins!"Yes—much better. Tall, dark and handsome identical twenty-five-year-old twins, as it turned out, with those giant brown liquid-center Italian eyes that just unstitch me. After meeting the boys in person, I began to wonder if perhaps I should adjust my rule somewhat about remaining celibate this year. For instance, perhaps I could remain totally celibate except for keeping a pair of handsome twenty-five-year-old Italian twin brothers as lovers. Which was slightly reminiscent of a friend of mine who is vegetarian except for bacon, but nonetheless ... I was already composing my letter to Penthouse:In the flickering, candlelit shadows of the Roman café, it was impossible to tell whose hands were caress—But, no.No and no.I chopped tvhe fantasy off in mid-word. This was not my moment to be seeking romance and (as day follows night) to further complicate my already knotty life. This was my moment to look for the kind of healing and peace that can only come from solitude.Anyway, by now, by the middle of November, the shy, studious Giovanni and I have become dear buddies. As for Dario—the more razzle-dazzle swinger brother of the two—I have introduced him to my adorable little Swedish friend Sofie, and how they've been sharing their evenings in Rome is another kind of Tandem Exchange altogether. But Giovanni and I, we only talk. Well, we eat and we talk. We have been eating and talking for many pleasant weeks now, sharing pizzas and gentle grammatical corrections, and tonight has been no exception. A lovely evening of new idioms and fresh mozzarella.Now it is midnight and foggy, and Giovanni is walking me home to my apartment through these back streets of Rome, which meander organically around the ancient buildings like bayou streams snaking around shadowy clumps of cypress groves. Now we are at my door. We face each other. He gives me a warm hug. This is an improvement; for the first few weeks, he would only shake my hand. I think if I were to stay in Italy for another three years, he might actually get up the juice to kiss me. On the other hand, he might just kiss me right now, tonight, right here by my door ... there's still a chance ... I mean we're pressed up against each other's bodies beneath this moonlight ... and of course it would be a terrible mistake ... but it's still such a wonderful possibility that he might actually do it right now ... that he might just bend down ... and ... and ... Nope.He separates himself from the embrace."Good night, my dear Liz," he says."Buona notte, caro mio," I reply.I walk up the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment, all alone. I let myself into my tiny little studio, all alone. I shut the door behind me. Another solitary bedtime in Rome. Another long night's sleep ahead of me, with nobody and nothing in my bed except a pile of Italian phrasebooks and dictionaries.I am alone, I am all alone, I am completely alone.Grasping this reality, I let go of my bag, drop to my knees and press my forehead against the floor. There, I offer up to the universe a fervent prayer of thanks.First in English.Then in Italian.And then—just to get the point across—in Sanskrit.2And since I am already down there in supplication on the floor, let me hold that position as I reach back in time three years earlier to the moment when this entire story began—a moment which also found me in this exact same posture: on my knees, on a floor, praying.Everything else about the three-years-ago scene was different, though. That time, I was not in Rome but in the upstairs bathroom of the big house in the suburbs of New York which I'd recently purchased with my husband. It was a cold November, around three o'clock in the morning. My husband was sleeping in our bed. I was hiding in the bathroom for something like the forty-seventh consecutive night, and—just as during all those nights before—I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard, in fact, that a great lake of tears and snot was spreading before me on the bathroom tiles, a veritable Lake Inferior (if you will) of all my shame and fear and confusion and grief.I don't want to be married anymore.I was trying so hard not to know this, but the truth kept insisting itself to me.I don't want to be married anymore. I don't want to live in this big house. I don't want to have a baby.But I was supposed to want to have a baby. I was thirty-one years old. My husband and I—who had been together for eight years, married for six—had built our entire life around the common expectation that, after passing the doddering old age of thirty, I would want to settle down and have children. By then, we mutually anticipated, I would have grown weary of traveling and would be happy to live in a big, busy household full of children and homemade quilts, with a garden in the backyard and a cozy stew bubbling on the stovetop. (The fact that this was a fairly accurate portrait of my own mother is a quick indicator of how difficult it once was for me to tell the difference between myself and the powerful woman who had raised me.) But I didn't—as I was appalled to be finding out—want any of these things. Instead, as my twenties had come to a close, that deadline of THIRTY had loomed over me like a death sentence, and I discovered that I did not want to be pregnant. I kept waiting to want to have a baby, but it didnt happen. And I know what it feels like to want something, believe me. I well know what desire feels like. But it wasn't there. Moreover, I couldn't stop thinking about what my sister had said to me once, as she was breast-feeding her firstborn: 'Having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it's what you want before you commit.'How could I turn back now, though? Everything was in place. This was supposed to be the year. In fact, we'd been trying to get pregnant for a few months already. But nothing had happened (aside from the fact that—in an almost sarcastic mockery of pregnancy—I was experiencing psychosomatic morning sickness, nervously throwing up my breakfast every day). And every month when I got my period I would find myself whispering furtively in the bathroom: Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me one more month to live ...

Editorial Reviews

"Gilbert’s prose is fueled by a mix of intelligence, wit and colloquial exuberance that is close to irresistible."—The New York Times Book Review"An engaging, intelligent, and highly entertaining memoir."—Time"A meditation on love in its many forms—love of food, language, humanity, God, and most meaningful for Gilbert, love of self."—Los Angeles Times"This insightful, funny account of her travels reads like a mix of Susan Orlean and Frances Mayes."—Entertainment Weekly"This is a wonderful book, brilliant and personal, rich in spiritual insight."—Anne Lamott