First Lines | 5 of My Faves

Let's start at the very beginning / A very good place to start / When you read, you begin with...

» Hello, it’s me.

Quick and clipped or meandering and taffy-like, I’m drawn to the first lines of a book, despite the fact that sometimes, they aren’t monumental, they don’t pull you in, or the hook isn’t hiding in them. Maybe none of those even happen in the first chapter — maybe that doesn’t happen until the end of it or maybe there’s a prologue that handles it or hinders it. Regardless, I love them. I save them, and I share them consistently in my Instagram stories. For each book I begin, I record those first lines. They are, after all, your first impressions of the book. Someone has decided — author or editor — that they will begin with those words. And the designers. That drop cap. That small case text.

Back in high school, I took a class called Great Books and Films, in which we (quelle surprise) watched some great films and we read some great books: Mister William Shakespeare’s masterpiece King Lear paired with Akira Kurosawa’s Japanese 1985 film adaptation, Ran (which includes other influences as well) — a wonderful introduction to Kurosawa’s work. Another was Norman Maclean’s brilliant title story in his semi-autobiographical short story collection A River Runs Through It (the best line here is actually its last) and the equally phenomenal film adaptation by Robert Redford in 1992. But it almost goes without saying, there were some [books and films] that we read/watched which I would not consider to be great. Nevertheless, I learned some film and book analysis and mindfulness in that class that I’ve carried with me to this day. This is also about the age where my tastes were solidifying, or beginning to … like how much I depend on a writing style in a book that doesn’t hurt my frontal lobe (heh-hem, my intense dislike for present tense began in that class with my read of John Updike’s Rabbit, Run).

It was also in that class where I was told to pay attention to how a movie will often begin even before its first image hits the screen — playing around with that moment when the card for the distribution company is on screen, whether it’s audio that begins here or the transition begins by altering the logo in a way that will soon be reflected in the movie’s first frame — a Paramount logo that starts to ripple as the image fades and the movie opens with a shot on rippling water, for instance. Of course, a movie doesn’t always start before you see its first frame, but when it does, those sounds or images can be as recognizable as the first notes of a song, giving you a hint of what’s to come. All of these choices represent some decision, at some level, that has been made by someone … author, editor, singer, songwriter, director, producer, cinematographer, or a team effort working together to bring their artistic entertainment to life.

All that to say, here are some favorite first lines of mine — some because of the first lines themselves and others because the book is a favorite. Also, I’m skipping the super famous openers from other faves of mine, like: Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera ….

1. Life After Life by Kate Atkinson

November 1930

A fug of tobacco smoke and damp clammy air hit her as she entered the café. She had come in from the rain and drops of water still trembled like a delicate dew on the fur coats of some of the women inside. A regiment of white-aproned waiters rushed around at tempo, serving the needs of the Münchner at leisure—coffee, cake and gossip.

What’s interesting to me about this, aside from the fact that this is a rare present-tense book that I love (the exception does indeed prove the rule, apparently), but it sets the stage for a point much later in the book, in essence. Our main character, or at least we must presume such, is only referred to by her pronouns. The scene itself is more important. The language Atkinson uses and the style she employs for the remainder of this brilliant book is what takes center stage. She basically says, “Dear Reader, you’ll just have to trust me. We’ll get to everything in good time. Let’s go.”

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2. Passage by Connie Willis

“I heard a noise,” Mrs. Davenport said, “and then I was moving through this tunnel.”

“Can you describe it?” Joanna asked, pushing the minitape recorder a little closer to her.

“The tunnel?” Mrs. Davenport said, looking around her hospital room, as if for inspiration. “Well, it was dark …”

Joanna waited. Any question, even “How dark was it?” could be a leading one when it came to interviewing people about their near-death experiences, and most people, when confronted with a silence, would talk to fill it, and all the interviewer had to do was wait. Not, however, Mrs. Davenport. She stared at her IV stand for a while, and then looked inquiringly at Joanna.

“Is there anything else you can remember about the tunnel?” Joanna asked.

“No …” Mrs. Davenport said after a minute. “It was dark.”

Here, Connie Willis has her witty sense of humor on display. She begins right away with dialogue—. No, actually she begins by quoting Goethe’s famous last words: “More light!” Later you see that she begins all her chapters that way, with that theme, which is in a way the same as the movie beginning before its first frame. I don’t often use the quotes from other literary works as first lines because it’s more about the reader and less about the first dip into the immersion of the story itself. Anyway, Willis starts right away with a scene where you understand that the main character appears to be Joanna (it’s interesting how you just sort of know that dotty old Mrs. Davenport isn’t made of main character material), and she’s interviewing people about their NDEs (near-death experiences), trying to get a factual recounting versus fanciful. There we have a hint of plot, a hint of Joanna, and a hint of Willis as an author. Score.

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3. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro

PROLOGUE: JULY 1956
Darlington Hall

It seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination now for some days. An expedition, I should say, which I will undertake alone, in the comfort of Mr Farraday’s Ford; an expedition which, as I foresee it, will take me through much of the finest countryside of England to the West Country, and may keep me away from Darlington Hall for as much as five or six days.

Ishiguro’s quiet, spare writing is where we begin. The main character’s name is unknown, which you later see is pretty indicative of who he is, because we do get one name, Mr Farraday, whose Ford the MC will be using for this so-called expedition. The word ‘expedition’ itself is also interesting because it’s so formal, as is the majority of these first lines. Expeditions (like to the South Pole or something) are usually at the behest of others, a government or a wealthier party who’s funding it. And typically an expedition begins with the expectation of discovering something and lead by an adventurer or scientist — not someone who’s venturing across the “finest countryside of England to the West Country” and rarely for 5 or 6 days or alone. This introduction is full of pretense.

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4. The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

Whew … my inclination was to continue as all three parts of silence were described, which would make for a long post (too late!), so I pulled back because this small taste at the beginning is plenty … and then I’m going to cheat. The Name of the Wind actually begins with the Prologue called A Silence of Three Parts. Sometimes I struggle in deciding if a prologue is where the story begins or not. But here, Rothfuss spends a brief moment setting up his world, laying down his style, and establishing mood and texture. The prologue itself touches on the main character, though we don’t know that yet (“The man had true-read hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things.”), and describes him with the same distant narrator he uses when detailing those three parts of silence. But the ending of this prologue is where the hook is hiding (and here’s where I cheat).

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.

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5. Howards End by E. M. Forster

One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.

“Howards End,
Tuesday

Dearest Meg,

It isn’t going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and altogether delightful—red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what will happen when Paul (younger son) arrives tomorrow.”

So, quite noticeable here is that the first word of the first lines is “one.” Forster not only employs it as an almost ambiguous pronoun, but the rest of the sentence could sound as if one is reluctant to tell this story. Ugh, fine. I may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister. However, it could also be leaning more into playful and arch storytelling, like someone spilling the tea. Oh, you haven’t heard? Well, you know, we have to go all the way back to when Helen was writing a letter to Meg from Howards End. Either way, this narrator is aware that he’s telling a story and aware of an audience for it.

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Okay — that’s enough for now. I cannot believe that this is what I decided the first real post here would be about. But I literally just sat down earlier today and started typing. I’m wordy. I’d love to hear the first lines of any favorite books you all have!

—C.