Come to the Edge: A Memoir
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
The Love Story of JFK Jr. and Christina Haag
"Lyrically and precisely recaptures the frenetic ecstasy of early love."--Washington Post
An elegy to first love, a lost New York, and a young man who led his life with surprising and abundant grace. When Christina Haag was growing up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, John F. Kennedy, Jr., was just one of the boys in her circle of prep school friends, a skinny kid who lived with his mother and sister on Fifth Avenue and who happened to have a Secret Service detail following him at a discreet distance at all times. A decade later, after they had both graduated from Brown University and were living in New York City, Christina and John were cast in an off-Broadway play together. It was then that John confessed his long-standing crush on her, and they embarked on a five-year love affair. Glamorous and often in the public eye, but also passionate and deeply intimate, their relationship was transformative for both of them. With exquisite prose, Haag paints a portrait of a young man with an enormous capacity for love, and an adventurous spirit that drove him to live life to its fullest.
A haunting book, Come to the Edge is a lasting evocation of a time and a place--of the indelible sting of the loss of young love, and of the people who shape you and remain with you, whether in person or in spirit. It is about being young and full of hope, with all the potential of your life as yet unfulfilled, and of coming of age at a moment in New York's history when the city at once held danger, magic, and endless possibilities for self-discovery.
Rarely has a love story been told so beautifully.
the game? She leans in, her breath warm, and with something akin to shared triumph, whispers, “The game—you got what you wanted!” I went to Sacred Heart for nine years. When I was old enough, I got a colored pass and took the city bus each day up Madison and down Fifth. It was a seed-kernel of a world, at once tight and about to burst. One of ritual and hegemony. We imagined ourselves different from one another, that each of our stories was special, but with rare exception, most of us lived in
AS DEATH were carved into the stone, a memorial to a woman from her Italian husband after her untimely passing almost a century before. I stopped for a moment and looked up. I wanted to be loved like that. When I passed through the main gates onto Prospect Street, I spotted my bike, an old Peugeot that took me everywhere. Relieved, I bent over the wheel and tugged at the lock. Then I heard my name. A voice I knew. I looked up, squinted. “Hey, stranger.” Someone wearing white was smiling at me.
John would not become an actor, that despite his talent, it was not something he could choose. I didn’t argue with my mentor, but I was sure of something else. From where I sat, I believed my friend was free to choose whatever he set his heart on. Spring fever is a real thing. At the end of the fall term, when one is equally sleep deprived and exam addled, passions are quelled by the shorter days and, perhaps, the genetic knowledge that it will only get worse and it’s best just to burrow in.
deck; we were on our way to pick up John, who was spearfishing off Gay Head. The whole way, she told me stories, the ones I wanted—not of the White House, but of her adventures in Greece and India and of the balls and parties she’d gone to in Newport and Southampton before she was married, when she was a girl in New York. I smiled, thinking of a spring evening a year later, when I’d run into her at the theater, a production of Macbeth with Christopher Plummer and Glenda Jackson. John was
greedily at the backs of our knees and gnawing on his sneaker laces. The moon rose. Then, in the distance, we heard faint chanting. Moving toward the voices, we saw a whitewashed building—a Pentecostal church. It was the night before Palm Sunday. We listened outside as people spoke in tongues, sang, and testified, their voices rising into the midnight sky. The enchantment of Treasure Beach began to show itself as more potent and primal, more mysterious and subtle, than the magic of the mushroom