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akjeThey say the first line of a novel either leads the readers in or pushes them away. I've never found that to be true...
...but let's take a look at some first lines from famous books.
■ A Passage to India by E.M. Forster
Except for the Marabar Caves—and they are twenty miles off—the city of Chandrapore presents nothing extraordinary.
■ A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo.
■ A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
Mariam was five years old the first time she heard the word harami.
■ Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Princeton, in the summer, smelled of nothing, and although Ifemelu liked the tranquil greenness of the many trees, the clean streets and stately homes, the delicately overpriced shops, and the quiet, abiding air of earned grace, it was this, the lack of smell, that most appealed to her, perhaps because the other American cities she knew well had all smelled distinctly.
■ Atonement by Ian McEwan
The Play—for which Briony had designed the posters, programs and tickets, constructed the sales booth out of a folding screen tipped on its side, and lined the collection box in red crêpe paper—was written by her in a two-day tempest of composition, causing her to miss a breakfast and a lunch.
■ Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan
"You sure about this?" Rachel asked again, blowing softly on the surface of her steaming cup of tea.
■ Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.
■ David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
■ Dracula by Bram Stoker
3 May. Bistritz.--Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.
■ Emma by Jane Austen
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
■ Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin
I stand at the window of this great house in the south of France as night falls, the night which is leading me to the most terrible morning of my life.
■ Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.
■ Howards End by E.M. Forster
One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.
■ Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
I am an invisible man.
■ Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.
■ Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez
It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.
■ Middlemarch by George Eliot
Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.
■ Orlando by Virginia Woolf
He — for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it — was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters.
■ Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.
■ Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel.
■ Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor.
■ The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter.
■ The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York.
■ The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
In later years, holding forth to an interviewer or to an audience of aging fans at a comic book convention, Sam Clay liked to declare, apropos of his and Joe Kavalier's greatest creation, that back when he was a boy, sealed and hog-tied inside the airtight vessel known as Brooklyn, New York, he had been haunted by dreams of Harry Houdini.
■ The Beautiful and Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald
In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.
■ The Bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder
On Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precipitated five travelers into the gulf below.
■ The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
Selden paused in surprise.
■ The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975.
■ The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James
Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.
■ The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
It seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination now for some days.
■ The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope
Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character and doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house in Welbeck Street.
■ The Secret History by Donna Tartt
The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.
■ War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
"Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes."
Honestly, none of these really do much for me. The only line I can think of that ever hooked me into reading a book appeared in a self-published novel:
When I was fourteen my family moved into a burning house.
I suppose the lesson, then, is that a first line should suggest something that's physically impossible, yet not to the point of being silly or childish...? Or maybe that first sentences really aren't that important after all. ¯\_(ﭢ)_/¯
...but let's take a look at some first lines from famous books.
■ A Passage to India by E.M. Forster
Except for the Marabar Caves—and they are twenty miles off—the city of Chandrapore presents nothing extraordinary.
■ A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo.
■ A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
Mariam was five years old the first time she heard the word harami.
■ Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Princeton, in the summer, smelled of nothing, and although Ifemelu liked the tranquil greenness of the many trees, the clean streets and stately homes, the delicately overpriced shops, and the quiet, abiding air of earned grace, it was this, the lack of smell, that most appealed to her, perhaps because the other American cities she knew well had all smelled distinctly.
■ Atonement by Ian McEwan
The Play—for which Briony had designed the posters, programs and tickets, constructed the sales booth out of a folding screen tipped on its side, and lined the collection box in red crêpe paper—was written by her in a two-day tempest of composition, causing her to miss a breakfast and a lunch.
■ Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan
"You sure about this?" Rachel asked again, blowing softly on the surface of her steaming cup of tea.
■ Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.
■ David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
■ Dracula by Bram Stoker
3 May. Bistritz.--Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.
■ Emma by Jane Austen
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
■ Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin
I stand at the window of this great house in the south of France as night falls, the night which is leading me to the most terrible morning of my life.
■ Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.
■ Howards End by E.M. Forster
One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.
■ Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
I am an invisible man.
■ Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.
■ Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez
It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.
■ Middlemarch by George Eliot
Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.
■ Orlando by Virginia Woolf
He — for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it — was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters.
■ Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.
■ Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel.
■ Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor.
■ The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter.
■ The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York.
■ The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
In later years, holding forth to an interviewer or to an audience of aging fans at a comic book convention, Sam Clay liked to declare, apropos of his and Joe Kavalier's greatest creation, that back when he was a boy, sealed and hog-tied inside the airtight vessel known as Brooklyn, New York, he had been haunted by dreams of Harry Houdini.
■ The Beautiful and Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald
In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.
■ The Bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder
On Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precipitated five travelers into the gulf below.
■ The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
Selden paused in surprise.
■ The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975.
■ The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James
Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.
■ The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
It seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination now for some days.
■ The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope
Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character and doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house in Welbeck Street.
■ The Secret History by Donna Tartt
The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.
■ War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
"Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes."
Honestly, none of these really do much for me. The only line I can think of that ever hooked me into reading a book appeared in a self-published novel:
When I was fourteen my family moved into a burning house.
I suppose the lesson, then, is that a first line should suggest something that's physically impossible, yet not to the point of being silly or childish...? Or maybe that first sentences really aren't that important after all. ¯\_(ﭢ)_/¯