Literature by Opening Sentence

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Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

The madness of an autumn prairie cold front coming through. You could feel it; something terrible was going to happen.

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

They say when trouble comes close ranks, and so the white people did.

Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler's pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die.

He speaks in your voice, American, and there's a shine in his eye that's halfway hopeful.

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.

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I was 37 then, strapped in my seat as the huge 747 plunged through dense cloud cover on approach to Hamburg airport.

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.

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green.

For many years I claimed I could remember things seen at the time of my own birth.

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

It was a pleasure to burn.

Granted: I am an inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his sight; there's a peephole in the door, and my keeper's eye is the shade of brown that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me.

Vaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash.

There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it.