A Closed and Common Orbit

 

I first read Becky Chambers' work when her story, "To Be Taught, If Fortunate," was a Hugo nominee. I liked it, and planned to read more. Her most recent book, A Psalm for the Wild Built, was lovely and reassuring, and I went on to read all of the Wayfarers series. 

Of these works, the first sentence that interested me most came from A Closed and Common Orbit, book two of the Wayfarers series: "Lovelace had been in a body for twenty-eight minutes, and it still felt every bit as wrong as it had the second she woke up in it."

There's a lot to unpack here. We have a character, Lovelace. She has a problem – something feels very wrong. Character plus problem is a first sentence formula that can fit any genre. 

Lovelace's specific problem, however, takes up the rest of the sentence, and shows us that the world is not our own. 

First, she "had been in a body" – this is a curious way to relate to a body. Lovelace is drawing a very clear line between the body and herself. Since she has only been there "for twenty-eight minutes," she is accustomed to not being in a body. Lovelace is a person – giving her the personal pronoun "she" in English implies that, as does giving her a name – yet she is a non-bodied person. It's not just that she's unaccustomed to this body; "a body," with the indefinite article "a," implies that there's nothing special about this body – any body would feel wrong to her. 

Next, that length of time – "for twenty-eight minutes" is both precise and short. Lovelace doesn't call it half an hour. Also, she expects that half an hour is enough for her to start feeling better about the body. If she were a newly born human, she wouldn't measure time that closely, nor would she expect to become comfortable that quickly. Her consciousness is well-developed before having a body, and she expects half an hour to make a noticeable difference to her. 

We see that from the word "still" – after half an hour, the body "still" feels wrong. In fact, it feels "every bit as wrong as it had the second she woke up in it." In other words, she was aware of the body from her first second in it, and she is painfully aware that her discomfort in it hasn't changed at all. 

This sentence promises us a world in which an intelligence can move into a body and a close examination of how that person feels about living in that body. A Closed and Common Orbit delivers on those promises. 

I hope, wherever you are, you are comfortable in your skin. Whether you are or aren't, Lovelace's story reflects on bodies and selves in an illuminating mirror with a twist. Such mirrors are one of the strengths of fiction set in other worlds. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Another Vacation Day!

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate. And I am thankful for all of you who read this.  

The Best Thing You Can Steal

This week's first sentence is another library find, a recent novel from a prolific English author. I found The Best Thing You Can Steal by Simon R. Green rollicking and clever. The first sentence begins building a world with a strong dash of style: "There is a world beneath the world, where magic and horrors run free, wonders and miracles are everyday things, and the dark streets are full of very shadowy people."

It's a lovely sentence to read aloud. It's long, but thoughtfully divided into sections by the commas. It has an understated rhythm, not quite falling into an alternation of stressed and unstressed syllables. It reminded me of poetry, and I went looking for why. I found this attractive pattern: in a sentence divided into four by the commas, the first phrase has eight syllables, the second phrase has eight syllables, the third and fourth phrases both have twelve syllables. 

Now, let's look at the words. 

The first phrase is an elegant definition of the secret history genre: "There is a world beneath the world." The conventions of that genre are that on the surface, we see the world we know. Beneath it, known to only a few, the rules are different. Men in Black, stories of worlds through secret doors, and most vampire novels belong to this genre. 

The remaining phrases describe the hidden world. "Where magic and horrors run free" – since magic is often appealing, while horror is frightening, this phrase suggests that the hidden world is a place of both wonder and dread. 

"Wonders and miracles are everyday things" – both "wonders" and "miracles" have positive connotations. The contrast in this phrase is between the heightened, uncommon, and magical experiences and the bland and common "everyday things." 

The fourth and final phrase leans to the hidden: "and the dark streets are full of very shadowy people." Both "dark" and "shadowy" suggest things that are hard to see. "Shadowy people" can also mean criminals. This is another case of loading the most ominous words at the end of the sentence. 

Until I wrote that paragraph, I hadn't noticed the association in this sentence between dark and dangerous. That's a point worth considering. Many people feel more vulnerable when it is harder to see. Many White people also feel that Black or brown-skinned people are dangerous. It's difficult to become aware and stop making that second association when the language is ubiquitous yet unexamined. I'm glad that looking at this sentence reminded me of that point. 

Reading a wide variety of viewpoints helps develop broader empathy and stronger reading skills. I recommend it. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Dale Nibbe on Unsplash

Origin

It was time to find more first sentences. I entered the library, and walked to a random stretch of shelf, and began pulling books and opening them, like a shark with a very specialized diet. 

The one to catch my attention was Diana Abu-Jaber's novel Origin. I wasn't previously familiar with the author, although I looked her up later and saw she has won several awards, of which the PEN award may be the most prestigious. The book, and its first sentence, feel literary: "I spot her as soon as I get off the elevator on the fourth floor." 

The first three words contain the most drama in the sentence: "I spot her." That's a different choice than loading the most impactful word at the end. These three words create a link between the narrator and another person. To spot someone is to recognize them, not just to see them. It means there is something identifiable and meaningful about the person you've noticed. 

The next phrase marks a moment: "as soon as I get off the elevator." The impact of seeing the other person is immediate. The narrator doesn't need to process or search the surroundings. The one the narrator sees stands out the very first instant they are in the same room. 

The final phrase marks a place: "on the fourth floor." With an elevator and a fourth floor, we know we are in a large building, the kind usually found in cities. 

Elevators and fourth floors don't carry a lot of emotional weight. The sentence almost retreats from the intimacy and impact of two people connected by a line of sight ("I spot her") to mundane, impersonal details: "as soon as I get off the elevator on the fourth floor." 

In other words, the rest of the sentence softens the impact of "I spot her" instead of raising it. That's a move that feels literary to me: quieting emotions, gentling impacts. 

Another aspect of this sentence that feels literary is the strength of the rhythm. The sentence starts with three groups of three one-syllable words. It naturally breaks like this: I spot her / as soon as / I get off / the elevator / on the fourth floor. A fourth set of three would have become too blatant or monotonous. Changing the rhythm after three sets of three lets the sentence become more natural. 

Finally, the form is first person, present tense. The narrator speaks as the central character, "I," and in the moment, "spot" – not third person, (most commonly he, she, or they) nor past (spotted). We will be looking out from the narrator's eyes, traveling tightly forward in time with them. Abu-Jaber makes elegant use of the difficulty of an "I" observing themselves, and of sharing the narrator's observations, as well as the slipperiness of a constant present, later in the book. 

It was a quiet sentence, and it had enough to draw me in. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Taya Iv on Unsplash

Tuyo

The first sentence of Rachel Neumeier's novel, Tuyo, widens the view before narrowing it again: "Beside the coals of the dying fire, within the trampled borders of our abandoned camp, surrounded by the great forest of the winter country, I waited for a terrible death." 

This is a sentence almost like a camera trick. First, we have a narrow focus: "Beside the coals of a dying fire."

Then, we back out to a slightly wider view: "within the trampled borders of our abandoned camp." A campfire is a small circle. The borders of a camp is a larger one. 

Next, we zoom to a very high altitude view: "surrounded by the great forest of the winter country." We'd need to move to a mountain top or a bird's eye to see an entire forest or an entire country. 

Suddenly, the focus is very tight again: "I" – one person, one face. 

And last, "waited for a terrible death," prepares us for a final fade to black. Neumeier has written a truly cinematic sentence. 

In addition to the camera moves, the narrator sets a strong hook. "I waited for a terrible death" sets the stakes to mortal. We also have clues about the world: people camp in groups around fires, there is a great forest and a winter country. "Winter country" is a little strange. In our world, we might call some polar regions winter countries. But even there, it is not winter all the time. Is there something else happening in the world of the story? "Winter country" is a subtle note that might point to the story taking place in another world. 

In another way, the sentence is dramatic rather than subtle. There are six words in the lexical field of death and endings: coals, dying, trampled, abandoned, winter, and death. Nor is it a gentle or quiet death; it is a "terrible death" – death worse than death. This sentence suggests the story to come will contain both small details and subtle clues and grand emotions and vast scale. 

Spending time with this sentence has me feeling like rereading the book. 

Some notes about what I do on this blog. My first sentence posts (which have been my only posts recently, but are not guaranteed to be all I write about) follow a few rules. For living authors, I only write about sentences I like or that I wrote myself. I usually read the books and like the books as well. My schedule is every Monday. I like to vary my authors and the genres they write in. Today I found that my working list of sentences contained six from sf/f, one from romance, and two from mystery/thriller, so I may need to go looking in mainstream fiction soon. This is no surprise, as science fiction and fantasy are my literary home! I do like to feature sentences from authors in groups who have historically had less attention. I like seeing more points of view, and I believe that we are all better off when more people have a chance to share their creativity. 

So do send me intriguing first sentences you've seen, especially those by women and members of BIPOC and LGBTQ+ communities! This is my 86th first sentence post, and I'm still finding new pleasures in them.

Photo by Benjamin Raffetseder on Unsplash

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Black Water Sister

Zen Cho's novel Black Water Sister starts with a sentence that does an unusually good job of foreshadowing three threads in her story: "The first thing the ghost said to Jess was: Does your mother know you're a pengkid?"

The first thread is the supernatural. There is a ghost that speaks to Jess. 

The second thread is intergenerational conflict: "Does your mother know...?" That phrase is how judgmental adults speak to younger people finding their own path. People say that when they want to shame or threaten someone for an activity they think their mother wouldn't approve of. It implies that your mother still has control over you. Our mothers always do, to some degree, yet these words have less leverage once the young person has established their own household. 

The third thread comes from a word I don't recognize: "pengkid." Apparently, it's something that might worry a mother. Jess doesn't understand the word, either, as the narrator explains in the next few sentences. It's a word in a language she speaks but has a limited vocabulary in. This story will feature multiple languages and cultures; this one word tips us off that Jess is caught in a clash of cultures. 

One sentence points out three sources of conflict: supernatural, parental, and cultural. I admire that very much. 

I also admire the careful use of italics. There are different conventions for how to use italics. One is that all foreign words go in italics. Another is that thoughts go in italics. At some point, Zen Cho (with possible discussion with her editors) needed to decide whether to use italics in either of these ways. She decided against italicizing foreign words and in favor of italicizing the words of the ghost, which she hears soundlessly. This works very well – I found the words easy to follow, and the italics helped make the story clearer. If she had used italics for foreign words, it would have done two things that would not have helped the story: first, she would have had to decide which words were foreign, which would make all but one of the languages shown in the book defined as other, and that is not true to Jess's experience – who decides which words are foreign? Second, there would have been enough of those italicized words to tire the eyes.

I've had decisions like this to make for books I've worked on. I like the meaning and the result of deciding to use italics for a way to speak, and deciding not to use italics for words of some languages and not another. 

All of Black Water Sister was clear-eyed, thoughtful, meaningful, and suspenseful. I liked it very much. 

Three sources of conflict makes this sentence a hook. I found it an even better promise. It promised that if I liked young women in conflict with the supernatural and their parents, and who need to navigate multiple cultures, I would like this book. And I did. 

The Once and Future Witches

The first sentence of Alix E. Harrow's book, The Once and Future Witches, is: "There's no such thing as witches, but there used to be." 

This sentence is an interesting case. All but one of the words are common, and have little emotional coloring. The single word that has a lot of associations is "witches" and it is a knockout. We have many strong images to go with the word "witches." 

The sentence also naturally separates into two pieces: one which ends with the strongest word in the sentence, and one which comes after. The two sentences are "There's no such thing as witches," and "There used to be." The word "but" is a simple conjunction (joining word). When I hear "There's no such thing as witches," I think of an overconfident character in a horror film. It's too strong a denial. I start expecting whoever said it to discover their mistake in a dramatic fashion.

The second part of the sentence, "there used to be," softens the effect. "Witches" no longer gains the extra impact of being the last word in the sentence. "There used to be" means something is gone. It adds nuance and possibly grief to the foreshadowing of the first part of the sentence. Since we know witches used to exist, the full sentence doesn't deny any possibility of witches existing. Saying that witches no longer exist is much weaker than saying witches have never existed. What has happened once is much more likely to happen again than what has never happened. 

Let's see what the sentence becomes with other words in the place of "witches." Here's one that's bureaucratic: "There's no such things as form 1384-C, but there used to be." That one is dull; very few people would care. Here's one with something almost everyone likes. "There's no such thing as dogs, but there used to be." That one is sad – we would miss dogs. Here's one that's true: "There's no such thing as dodos, but there used to be." That is a loss, but perhaps not as personal as losing dogs would be. Here's another true one: "There's no such thing as smallpox, but there used to be." We are relieved that there is no more smallpox. 

What are witches in the world of the story? A menace, like smallpox? A valued part of the community? A persecuted minority? Witches have been all of these and more in different tales. They are usually female. They have some measure of power. They have been villains, scapegoats, and heroes, as complex as any humans, with more ability to act. 

Perhaps the most common view of witches is that they are dangerous, magical women. Would it be good or bad if all the dangerous, magical women were gone? 

One great word can make or break a sentence. The word "witches" is an excellent choice for the single strong word in a sentence. The words around "witches" create intrigue, as they open the question that what used to exist, but doesn't now, could exist again. 

Photo by Liv Cashman on Unsplash

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Mr. Midshipman Hornblower

Indigenous Peoples' Day caught me unprepared today. When I can, I like to find a good sentence related to a period of observance, read the entire book, and write my blog post to suit. If you'd like to read about a sentence from an indigenous author today, please consider my older posts on Empire of Wild, Two Roads, Trail of Lightning, or Solar Flares. 

Mr. Midshipman Hornblower is part of the influential Horatio Hornblower series by C. S. Forester. I'd heard "Horatio Hornblower stories" frequently as a shorthand for tales of people who start with very little and work hard to gain status and wealth. I was a little surprised to learn this book came out in 1950 – I'd gained an impression that the books had been around longer. As it turns out, C. S. Forester wrote the series out of chronological order. Mr. Midshipman Hornblower covers the beginning of Hornblower's career, but the earliest publication in the series came in 1937. This makes Forester a contemporary of Hemingway. 

The story begins in 1796, and the first sentence has some flavor of that time. Forester paid attention to the sound of the words. Notice the sets of alliteration (words that start with the same consonants): "blustering loudly, and bearing on its bosom," "duties kept them on deck." He repeated the word "loudly." In the second phrase that contains it, "big drops rattled loudly" the strong beats of the rhythm (´, ´, ´-, ´-) thump like the raindrops do. The sentence lends itself to reading aloud, with varying rhythms and repeating sounds. 

Reading it aloud also makes it easier to understand. With only two commas in thirty-nine words, the sentence could use the vocal expression of a good reader to help group the words into meaning. My first read put pauses in the sentence this way: "A January gale was roaring up the Channel,/ blustering loudly,/ and bearing on its bosom/ rain squalls/ whose big drops rattled loudly/ on the tarpaulin clothing/ of those among the officers/ and men/ whose duties kept them on deck." That's not the best division to make the sentence clear. Especially, the break after "officers" causes a hitch when parsing the sentence. A reader who already knew the sentence, and read without pause through "those among the officers and men" would make this easier to follow. Then we see that a storm brought rain that fell upon the sailors. 

A fair number of the words relate to the sea: gale, Channel, squalls, tarpaulin, deck. Some of the phrases sound old-fashioned: blustering, bearing on its bosom, tarpaulin (again), officers and men. The sounds and connotations of the words help build a mood – a little poetic, a little historic. 

This is a nostalgic sentence. It looks back to a time that some found heroic and appealing: when men (only men) stood up to the gusts of nature, and won their place by their own efforts. That's not really how we see the world any more. 

So maybe, this Indigenous Peoples' Day, this sentence can serve as a reminder of a past we no longer admire so simply. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Tyler Lastovich on Unsplash

Note: Corrected apostrophe placement in Indigenous Peoples' Day on 12 Oct. 2021. 

Welcome to Temptation

Jennifer Crusie's novel, Welcome to Temptation, was the first contemporary romance I absolutely loved. She published it in 2000 and I read it a few years later. Rereading it last year, I again admired the craft and the humor and the characters, even while noticing that quite a lot has changed since it came out. 

The first sentence of Welcome to Temptation is: "Sophie Dempsey didn’t like Temptation even before the Garveys smashed into her ’86 Civic, broke her sister’s sunglasses, and confirmed all her worst suspicions about people from small towns who drove beige Cadillacs. " 

It's a long sentence. Like the first sentence of Last Looks (which I blogged about on Aug. 23rd), it has a careful structure to help the meaning stay clear. 

The first part of the sentence could be complete in itself: "Sophie Dempsey didn't like Temptation." That gives us a person, Sophie Dempsey; a problem – she doesn't like Temptation; and an interesting double entendre – we see "Temptation" the capitalized name, and we also hear "temptation" the invitation to do something one shouldn't. Sophie may well face two things she doesn't like. 

The rest of the sentence intensifies Sophie's dislike. The words "even before" mean that whatever follows will make things worse. Then Crusie piles on the extra layers of problem: "the Garveys smashed into her '86 Civic, broke her sister's sunglasses, and confirmed all her worst suspicions about people from small towns who drove beige Cadillacs." One interesting technique here is that the problems, instead of moving from small to large instead start with the worst and grow increasingly trivial. Smashing into a car is a potentially lethal problem. Breaking sunglasses is physical damage, but to something small and easy to replace. Confirming suspicions happens entirely within Sophie's head – it is perhaps no damage at all. And what is she suspicious about? Small towns and beige Cadillacs – items which many find attractive rather than suspicious. 

The sentence, instead of increasing the tension by making the situation worse and worse, reassures us – because if breaking her sister's sunglasses is the worst damage of the car accident, no one was hurt – and then becomes absurd as Sophie worries about small towns and Cadillacs. The final result is humor rather than tragedy. 

The sentence does raise questions. Why does Sophie dislike Temptation? Why is she suspicious of small towns and people who drive Cadillacs? Or is it only people who drive beige Cadillacs? What will happen next? But it asks those questions with humor and curiosity rather than fear and high tension. 

We also learn quite a lot about Sophie, the time, and the setting. Sophie has an old and cheap car, and a sister. Her car dates from '86, and it's a year when beige is fashionable, which narrows down the time. They are in a small town, where at least one family, the Garveys, drives a Cadillac. These details are the first elements of the story's world. They don't say everything about the time or place, but they do begin to suggest where and when the Garveys hit Sophie's car. 

I appreciate the humor, the attitude, and the commas in this sentence. Since I like humor, attitude, and well-placed commas, I am entirely tempted to read on. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Endri Killo on Unsplash

On Vacation!

No first sentence this week! I am on vacation. 

I believe in vacations! Be kind to yourselves this week. 

Anansi Boys

Comfort comes in many forms. After a hard couple of weeks, a random link took me to an interview with Neil Gaiman, and I remembered that I hadn't yet chosen a first sentence from one of my favorite authors. Anansi Boys, like Gaiman's work often does, has moments of horror, and yet, the voice that tells that horror comforts me. 

The first sentence of Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys is: "It begins, as most things begin, with a song." 

The tension here is in the word "begins." Something is beginning. We don't yet know what. We don't know what characters will face it. We don't know where or when. So far, we have very few details. 

The next phrase, "as most things begin," is a statement about the shape of the world. It claims that most things that begin all start in the same way. Most things are alike. There is pattern to the universe. This is a not exactly a creation myth, but a statement of faith about creations: Most things have the same genesis. 

The last phrase is "with a song." The word "song" falls in the strong, final position, but it is not a word that increases tension. A song is art rather than danger. This placement shows that songs are important – Gaiman uses the last word to emphasize creation rather than suspense. 

Perhaps that is why I find him comforting. The world, he tells me, even in this one sentence, has danger (it begins) and it also has patterns (as most things begin) and creation (song). Gaiman's epic comic series, Sandman, about the king of dreams and stories, reminded me that storytelling mattered at a time when I had lost faith. His "Make Good Art" speech also reached me at a moment when I needed it. He tells good stories that tell us we can also make art. I need to hear that, now and then. 

Keep creating, folks. It matters. 

With all my best wishes, Anna

Photo by JOSHUA COLEMAN on Unsplash

A Minute to Midnight

 

David Baldacci appears frequently on bestseller lists. I browsed through a handful of his opening sentences, and this one, from A Minute to Midnight, appealed the most to me: "Once more she rode into the Valley of Death." 

That's an operatic and portentous statement. "Once more" – she has done this before, and survived. "She rode" – like a member of the cavalry, or a sheriff in a Western, she is not going or driving, but calling up all the horseback connotations of riding. "Into the Valley of Death" – she is entering a lethally dangerous place, giving up the high ground, and perhaps surrounded by unscalable canyon walls. A valley limits your movement. Armies have an advantage on high ground. So she is not only returning to a very dangerous place, she's giving up her high ground to go there. 

"Valley of Death" in this case has three distinct associations. The first comes from one of the most memorized passages of the Bible, the 23rd Psalm. "Yea, though I walk through the Valley of Death, I shall fear no evil." The psalmist also chose "Valley of Death" to describe an extremely perilous situation, which makes God's protection there all the more impressive. The second association is "Death Valley," one of the hottest places on Earth. It is an extremely inhospitable desert. The third association, as we learn in following paragraphs, is with a high security prison, home to murderers, which our heroine is on her way to visit. 

The triple meaning must have been irresistible. I find it very appealing. 

What kind of woman would return to a Valley of Death? Why go to such a dangerous place? What will happen there? 

This sentence is a true hook – it creates intense suspense. The grand voice of the sentence also suggests drama and passion – a promise that the book will deliver more excitement. With these words, David Baldacci launches the book at high speed. 

Photo by Will Truettner on Unsplash

The Girl with Stars in Her Eyes

 

The Girl with Stars in Her Eyes is a recent release with a lot of buzz. Xio Axelrod's bio says she plays in a band under another name. The details of the music business here are fresh and precise. 

The first sentence reads, "Antonia Bennette woke up from her after-school nap to the sound of a guitar." There's no dread or suspense here – we are not afraid of naps or guitars – so this sentence doesn't serve as that kind of hook. It's more like an origin story. 

We have a name: Antonia Bennette. She'll go by Toni, later, leaving her with a name that sounds like Tony Bennett, a well-known singer. It's a name that both shows her parents were deeply into music and were a little careless of her. It's unkind to give her a name that will bring an obvious comment throughout her life. 

Next, she "woke up." This is literal – she is coming out of sleep – and it could also be metaphorical. Is she having an awakening? 

The last two phrases start with "from" and "to." That implies a journey – another clue that this could be a metaphorical awakening as well as a literal one. 

And where is she starting? "From her after-school nap." She's young enough to be going to school and to have a nap afterwards. 

Where is she going? "To the sound of a guitar." Her awakening is to music. 

If I rewrote this sentence as the opening of a fairy tale, it might go like this: "One day, a girl named for a famous musician heard a sound that stirred her." Antonia Bennette is going from youth and sleep to awakening and music. She'll make guitars a core element of her life. 

It's a great opening to attract readers who are interested in girls who play guitar and who they grow up to be. 

Photo by Leutrim Fetahu on Unsplash

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Plumage

 

This first sentence comes from the books I carry with me. Plumage is a favorite from 2000, and its first sentence reads: "Sassy Hummel knew she should get over it, but how?" 

We have one character, "Sassy Hummel." Check out that name! "Sassy" suggests someone spunky, not afraid to talk back, and spirited. "Hummel" is close to "hum" and "humble" – quiet, self-effacing words that contrast with "Sassy." Whoever she is, she has at least two sides. Listen to the words, too – "Sassy" is open and short, a good match for its meaning, while "Hummel" keeps the lips nearly closed, as humming would. Both words have an accented first syllable, and a softer second syllable, giving us the rhythm of a march in 4/4 time. 

Sassy has a problem. Something has happened, and she knows "she should get over it." Getting over it is the last refuge of the disempowered. She can't make it better. The only option she has to improve her lot is to adjust herself to stop feeling bad about it. Somehow, she believes she "should" get over it – why? Who taught her that her problem is best dismissed? 

The final phrase shows she can't get over it: "but how?" She doesn't know how she can get over it. There's no method for her to take that step. 

With so much out of her hands, this could be a depressing sentence. The name Sassy – with its calls to unsinkable, rebellious women – brings some lightness to the sentence. So does its fast rhythm. Then, there's the snap of the final two words: "but how?" Just two casual syllables, looking for an answer. Maybe Sassy doesn't know how to get over it, whatever it is. What she has left is the willingness to ask the question. 

This first sentence holds the seed of the book particularly well. The story will show how Sassy Hummel is both humble and daring, what "it" is that happened to her, and how she will get past it. The how takes some surprising and lyrical turns. Plumage remains a favorite. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Yorman Tamayo on Unsplash

Last Looks

 

Howard Michael Gould's book, Last Looks, has an unusually long first sentence for a book published in 2018: "As he scrubbed one sock in the day's supply of well water, noting that his stitches had not held and the hole in the toe had reopened, he considered once again the problem of the One Hundred Things, as he had every day, every hour of every day, for the past three years." 

The first challenge of a long sentence is making it clear. Gould meets that challenge, with generous deployment of commas and a careful order of words, all following closely together. There's no need to look back at previous parts of the sentence to understand the later parts. There are four sections, each of which almost completes a thought. First, we have a phrase that tells us what "he" is doing: "As he scrubbed one sock in the day's supply of well water;" next, something the character observes: "noting that his stitches had not held and the hole in the toe had reopened;" third, what he is thinking about: "he considered once again the problem of the One Hundred Things;" and finally, how often and how long he has thought about that: "as he had every day, every hour of every day, for the past three years." 

By keeping each portion semi-independent, Gould makes the entire sentence easier to follow. 

The next challenge of a long sentence is to make it hold attention. Here, the added information of each portion helps. So do the specific details, such as "scrubbed," "day's supply of well water," "hole," and "One Hundred Things." Each of these details is helping build a character – what he does, what he notices, what he thinks, how he does it – in precise terms. 

I'm particularly intrigued by "One Hundred Things." The capital letters both show that this is the title of a specific concept and imply that it is important to the character. I happen to have encountered the concept – it's a plan for minimalist living – but would a wide variety of readers know it? Is it a concept that will remain in the current vocabulary a decade from now? Or will it become obscure and tie the character to a specific time? The next sentences do explain the idea, so the story doesn't depend on the reader already knowing what the One Hundred Things are, but it's a less widely known reference than the fairy tales or Shakespeare some of our other first sentences have referred to. 

The first section tells us a lot about the character's lifestyle. It includes well water and mending socks. Even paying attention to a hole in a sock puts him out of the mainstream of American life. These are words that go with back-to-the-land living or earlier eras. But "One Hundred Things" seems to date to the book The 100 Thing Challenge, by Dave Bruno, published in 2010. That narrows the possible period for this story. 

The final portion of the sentence, placed where it will receive the most emphasis, is the most intense. "As he had every day, every hour of every day, for the past three years." That's a frequency of thought that suits matters of survival: sex or food or living with a predator. Somehow, the One Hundred Things have become the equivalent of life-and-death to this character. The repetition of "every" is a poetic device, showing the return of the word like the return of the thought. The constant focus on One Hundred Things is an obsession. 

I found the character intriguing. I was a little unsure through the book whether the narrator admired or had contempt for this obsession, and I also was unclear on the tone of the book at times. That's okay. An occasional ambiguous read is a pleasant stretch. It feels fresh, now and then, for an author to leave their judgments complex. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Taylor Simpson on Unsplash

The Last Picture Show

 

The first sentence of Larry McMurtry's novel, The Last Picture show, is: "Sometimes Sonny felt like he was the only human creature in the town." 

That comes so close to being a genre sentence! One little change, "Sometimes Sonny was the only human creature in the town," and now he's a lone survivor of a zombie apocalypse! Or change the emphasis a little, and Sonny is one human, surrounded by mythological creatures that only appear human.... 

But no, I've read the whole book, and McMurtry had intended no change from our consensual reality. The clue is in the words "felt like." A character can feel like the most fantastic metaphors and still inhabit mainstream literature. 

With non-mainstream interpretations off the table, what does McMurtry's sentence contain?

We have a character, Sonny. We have the on again, off again time stamp, "sometimes." Sometimes doesn't tell us what the date is or suggest an hour or era. It means partly so, partly not. 

We have a location: "in the town." Town means somewhere smaller than a city, and perhaps more relaxed. It is also not very specific. 

Most of the sentence aims to tell us about Sonny's feelings: "he felt like he was the only human creature." By devoting the most words to Sonny's feelings, the sentence may be showing us that those feelings are the most important matter to the story. 

It doesn't name Sonny's feeling. Instead, it tells us what that feeling is like, being "the only human creature." "Only" sounds lonely – humans don't do well alone for long periods. "Human creature" is strange. Most often, we consider humans and creatures as different categories. What does it mean to be a "human creature?" Maybe Sonny is made into an animal by his loneliness. Although Sonny is not a werewolf, that same set of metaphors, of animals inside and uncontrolled feelings, might be invoked by "human creature." Still, a creature is more small and hidden than a beast or animal. Sonny isn't empowered by being like a human creature. He's reduced. 

Words carry great capes of meaning behind them. We can use them to create new worlds or to paint extra resonance into everyday scenes. With the words "only human creature," McMurtry begins to show us the interior of Sonny, whose exterior might be all we could see if we met him. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Courtney Rose on Unsplash

Monkey Around

Monkey Around is Jadie Jang's first novel, and its first sentence sealed my decision to read it: "The guard looked entirely human." That's five words with plenty to intrigue and unpack. Let's get to it!

First, we have a character: "The guard." Guards separate what they protect from the people they protect it from. So the guard isn't the person who has a problem here. Whoever is noticing the guard very likely has a problem. Guards feature in stories of prison escapes and heists. When we see a guard in a story, we expect someone to need to disable or sneak past them. The word "guard" already sets the story up for action. 

Next, we have "looked." "Looked" here means "appeared to be" and when we use it that way, it almost always implies "but actually wasn't." Jang could have written "only looked" and she didn't need to. She dropped the unnecessary word "only" and the sentence is briefer and has more impact for it. 

The fourth word is "entirely." You know this one. "Entirely" protests too much. The real world is mostly or partly or nearly whatever it is – when someone says "entirely" they are exaggerating for effect or implying that they mean "not at all" instead. Both "only" and "entirely" are adverbs (words which describe how something acts or modify descriptions and often end in "-ly") and to use two adverbs in this short sentence would have sounded absurd. The one Jang chose heightens our awareness that how the guard looks isn't how they are. 

The final word, taking all the extra emphasis of last position, is "human." I love seeing "human" there. "Looked" and "entirely" have already set up the final word to be untrue. "Human" arrives as a world-shifting zinger. 

The sentence now contains the meaning, "The guard wasn't human." Our world doesn't feature guards that only look human. This marks the story's genre as fantasy or possibly science fiction. With five words, Jang prepared us for action in another world. What fun! 

The whole book was a lot of fun. It has a fast pace, and a richly seen, fresh setting. I'm glad I saw this on a Big Idea post on Whatever and I'm glad I read it. I will look for more from Jadie Jang. 

Photo by Ningyu He on Unsplash. I chose this one for the intelligence in the monkey's eyes, but it is not the right variety of monkey to match the one in the book. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Sunshine

The first sentence of Sunshine, by Robin McKinley, is: "It was a dumb thing to do but it wasn't that dumb." 

Someone recommended this book to me. I hadn't read any of McKinley's books before. The situation in the first few pages grabbed my attention and the book gripped me to the end. 

The sentence mentions no names, no time, no location. It does set up a problem. When someone says, "It was a dumb thing to do," we know that whatever it was, it came out badly. When they add, "But it wasn't that dumb," I hear them trying to justify their actions. 

On this sentence, I wondered if many other people would share my associations. I match "dumb thing to do" to teenagers, strongly. Humans whose forebrains aren't yet fully developed are most likely to take chances, discover those chances cause problems, and then call those actions "dumb things to do." I hope that they survive, wiser, to have a second chance. It strikes close to home when they don't. 

We don't yet know who is telling this tale. An omniscient narrator could be telling the story of someone else, which means the person who made the mistake doesn't have to survive to tell the tale. Even a first person narrator could end the story in a very bad place. Writers have their ways. The sentence doesn't promise that everyone or anyone survives. 

Do you hear a stress on "that" when you read, "But it wasn't that dumb?" The stronger that stress is, the more it sounds like someone trying to argue that the "dumb thing" shouldn't have been such a big deal. Try reading this as a sober calculator of odds might say it, with barely any variation of stress. But "dumb thing" is not a good match to a person like that. We expect someone calmly estimating the odds to use more academic language, perhaps, "There was a possibility of an infelicitous outcome, but the risk was within acceptable bounds." "Dumb thing" is a better match to someone young and impetuous. 

Someone has done something risky. They claim it wasn't that risky – but they wouldn't be calling it a "dumb thing to do" if it had gone well. We don't yet know who it was, or what they did... but we want to find out more. 

This sentence draws us in with mystery and tension. It is a hook. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

 

 

Ukridge

 

P. G. Wodehouse was a humorous, prolific writer best known for his Jeeves and Wooster books. Born in England, he spent much of his life in the United States, including the last decades of his life. He's part of our comedic novel heritage. Ukridge collects a series of stories featuring the title character, which he first published in 1924. 

As I paged through the library's Wodehouse books, racing against the dread deadline of closing time, this first sentence held my attention. 

Now it's summer, my least favorite season, and part of me is thinking, "What even is comedy? What is word?" But I'll try to rally myself and see what we have here. 

Here's the sentence (external quotes omitted for elegance): “Laddie,” said Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, that much-enduring man, helping himself to my tobacco and slipping the pouch absently into his pocket, “listen to me, you son of Belial.” 

There are two characters in this sentence: the narrator, who's talking of an encounter he had himself, and Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge. There's an interesting device here. The narrator doesn't describe himself, but Ukridge calls the narrator "Laddie" and "son," which suggests the narrator is a young man. He is old enough to have his own tobacco. 

As to Ukridge, the narrator calls him "that much-enduring man" and says he "absently" pockets the tobacco. These are sympathetic judgments. The narrator calls our attention to Ukridge's problems and treats the loss of his tobacco as forgetfulness rather than malice. 

At the same time, Ukridge is calling him "son of Belial" – an insult, although possibly a genial tease. It means "son of the devil" yet the less common term "Belial" lands more softly. "Laddie" could well be affectionate. Is this wit rather than dislike? 

The narrator seems to like Ukridge, and Ukridge may like the narrator as well. Ukridge addresses him familiarly, and makes himself at home with the narrator's tobacco. It seems they are friends, although swiping tobacco and calling names could be unkind. That tension between action and attitude is one source of humor here. 

Another is the name "Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge." It's long and ungainly. Stanley's common enough. Featherstonehaugh sounds strained, with the mismatch of "feather" and "stone" and the odd syllable "haugh" like someone crying out in pain at the end. The first syllable of "Ukridge" sounds a bit like someone choking or gagging. Finally, the name ends with "ridge" a return to a common pattern of having a last name refer to a land feature. The whole name has odd bits sandwiched between parts that make it seem normal, at first. 

Another element of humor comes in the phrase "that much-enduring man." It comes right after Ukridge's full name – perhaps even having that name is much to endure. It also, from the events in the sentence, seems misapplied. The narrator would seem to have more to endure here than Ukridge does. "Much-imposing man" would seem more accurate. To call Ukridge "much-enduring" seems ironic. 

Interrupting Ukridge's statement for so many words suspends time in a rhythm that often goes with comedy. In the midst of saying, "Laddie, listen to me," the narrator has time to tell us that long name and describe Ukridge as long-suffering, and Ukridge has time to borrow some tobacco and swipe the pouch. The action is truly faster than the speech. 

Ah, good, now this sounds funny to me again, in a dry way. There was a period, when I was looking at it, when all the humor fell away, like ether fleeing an electron microscope. Losing the pleasure of smiling at Wodehouse would be a high price to pay for a blog post. But I would pay it, lads and lassies, just for you. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Erol Ahmed on Unsplash

A Conspiracy of Truths

 

Today I was thinking about how genre affects first sentences. The classic hook – a first sentence that grabs the reader with suspense – appears most often in mystery and thriller novels. When I started writing about first sentences, I expected to find mostly hooks. Maybe that's because the writing books of Lawrence Block, a mystery writer, were a strong early influence on me. 

Other genres may have other priorities for first sentences. Or possibly it's the other way around: A first sentence may start to build the genre of a story. Revealing genre is a fast way to set a frame around a story. Withholding genre asks the reader to keep an open mind a little longer – and most of the books that do that are literary or mainstream fiction. 

Alexandra Rowland begins her novel A Conspiracy of Truths with this sentence: "The whole mess began in a courtroom in Vsila, the capital of Nuryevet, where I was being put on trial for something stupid." 

The first words of the sentence, "The whole mess began," tell us that the narrator plans to start at the beginning of a problem. They also are informal speech. They are everyday language, without the tradition of "Once upon a time," or the pastoral tones of "In the beginning," or the military precision of "At 2100 hours on the seventh day of the third month...." "Mess," in particular, is a word more often spoken than written. These four words both announce the beginning and begin to build a voice. 

The next few words, "in a courtroom," lets us know that this is a legal tale. We begin to expect lawyers and juries and laws. 

Then we have "in Vsila, the capital of Nuryevet." These are places I have never heard of. The form suggests that Nuryevet is a country, and Vsila its governing city, so these are significant places rather than obscure ones – in the world they belong to, which is not our world and our time. The two place names have a vaguely Russian or eastern European feel to them. For those who remember the Cold War, that feel makes the word "courtroom" more chilling. 

The next words, "where I was being put on trial," raise the stakes. Now the narrator ("I") is not attending the courtroom as an audience member or a lawyer – they are the defendant, and thus at risk of whatever the penalties may be for what they are accused of. 

The sentence ends with these words, "for something stupid." The narrator doesn't respect the charges. In fact, they call them "stupid," which might even show contempt for the charges or the court. 

The narrator has a lot of attitude.

This sentence starts and ends with words that build the narrator's voice. In the middle, it shows that we are in a different world ("Vsila," "Nuryevet"), and puts the narrator in jeopardy ("where I was on trial"). The strong final word underlines that the narrator has a bad opinion of the court, or the law that accuses them. What kind of person dares speak badly of the law? Someone who thinks themselves outside it. 

This is a story of person against the system. Because the sentence is in first person, past tense, we know the narrator will survive to tell the tale about "the whole mess." 

For a clue to the genre, we see that the story takes place in a different world. This suggests fantasy or science fiction. There's no sign yet of magic, which would make this fantasy, or advanced technology, which would make this science fiction. It will take more sentences to determine that part of the genre. 

The first sentence has told us quite a lot about the story to come. It will feature a person with attitude who prevails against the system in another world. If you like that kind of story, this first sentence is telling us, you will like this book. 

I do like that kind of story and I did like the book. A Conspiracy of Truths delivers what it promises from the first sentence. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Murder in the Marais

 

This week I had the long-delayed pleasure of browsing for books. Murder in the Marais caught my eye with a stylish cover, several sequels shelved beside it, and, of course, an intriguing first sentence. 

That first sentence reads, "Aimée Leduc felt his presence before she saw him." It's short. It's unsettling. It raises questions. Let's look at how the author, Cara Black, pulled me into her story. 

First, we have a person. Her name is Aimée Leduc. That name has a French form. It's not quite enough to prove that the character is French – she could be of French descent, or belong to a different group that now uses French, or named by someone who likes French. It creates the possibility that she is French, and draws in whatever associations we have with France and being French. 

We have a first name and a last name, slightly formal. Aimée means "loved" and Leduc means "the duke," both marking her as valued. 

We have the bare bones of a situation: A man is present. 

Then we have her perception of his presence: She felt him before she saw him. And this is where we begin to worry. 

Normally, we can see much farther than we can feel. It's strange to feel before we see. When would a woman feel a man before she saw him? Here are some possibilities: If he was hidden behind a corner or in shadows and close enough that she could feel his body heat or the movement of his breath. If he had been staring intently at her until the back of her neck cringed. If she was a woman of unusual perceptions. 

All of these options are ominous. The first two put her in danger. In the third case, it is danger that usually calls forth such extra alertness. One way or another, something is not right here. 

One more thing – because we read of what Aimée Leduc feels and sees, we are close enough to her to share those senses. Already Cara Black is drawing us very close to her story. 

I haven't read the book yet. I'm looking forward to it. I can tell the prose is good, and the seventeen sequels show that the books have captured an audience. That's potentially well over a million words for me to enjoy. 

Yet, like all series, it starts with a single sentence. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Léonard Cotte on Unsplash

Another Brooklyn

 

Jacqueline Woodson has won the National Book Award, and I found Another Brooklyn on a recommended reading list. The first sentence, "For a long time, my mother wasn't dead yet," intrigued me. 

This morning, with some ideas about what I might say about the sentence, I read the book. The book gives the sentence a different meaning than I'd taken as I considered the first sentence on its own. I'd expected the story of an illness. I took "For a long time, my mother wasn't dead yet," to mean that everyone had known the mother was going to die for a long time before she did. My best guess was cancer or some lingering wasting disease. 

I have a good imagination. I can roll out long stories from small clues. Sometimes I'm wrong. This was one of those cases. 

What the narrator meant could be a spoiler, so I will not tell it here. I will drop the expectation of a long illness and see what's in the first sentence itself. 

There are two characters: the speaker and the speaker's mother. The mother is "my mother" – very close to the person who tells the story. There are markers of time: "For a long time" and "yet." "For a long time" means this situation stretched out. "Yet" marks the end of that duration, and it is a short, sharp clip of a word. "Yet" breaks the long stretch decisively. 

There is also a problem. "For a long time, my mother was not dead yet," is in the past tense. That past tense implies that, although there was a long period before she died, the mother is dead now. 

It's a short sentence, full of short words. The longest is "mother." "Mother" and "dead" are both very strong words, full of associations and emotions. Together, they worry us. 

The part of the sentence that most matches the rest of the book is "For a long time." There is a feeling of suspension, of pending grief or loss that continues throughout the story. Although the first sentence misled me a bit, the tone and the worry of it begin creating the mood that will hold throughout the novel. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Spoiler Alert

I've enjoyed a number of Olivia Dade's books. She writes characters who often share my interests, and puts them in situations that I can believe. She often includes a bit of humor, which I appreciate. 

Her novel, Spoiler Alert, starts with this sentence: "Between takes, Marcus did his best not to acknowledge the obvious: this was a stupid-ass way to die." 

Let's start at the end this time. The word "die" is here, placed in the strong, final position that gives a word extra emphasis. Normally, this would create high tension, as "die" raises the stakes to life or death. However, this sentence undercuts the tension of the word. "Between takes" means that this is make-believe: Marcus is part of a video production. Worse, "stupid-ass way to die" suggests that it is a badly written death scene. 

Marcus is a character with a problem. It's not the threat to his life that the word "die" might at first suggest. Instead, it is something that takes quite a few more words to describe. He must "do his best not to acknowledge" – that is, he must play his death straight – that this is "a stupid-ass way to die." His problem is not that he is going to die. His problem is that he needs to commit to a scene that doesn't make sense to him.

Now we know a lot about Marcus. He's an actor – that is almost certain to bring with it that he is attractive. In this world, professional actors are very seldom unattractive. He's intellectual – he has noticed that the death scene is a stupid one, and his thinking about it is complex: "did his best not to acknowledge the obvious" is a layered thought with a long word in it. He's a little snarky: "stupid-ass" is a bold and impolite term. Many writers stick to more moderate language. 

Attractive, intelligent, snarky – Marcus has the attributes of a romantic hero. He's also trying to keep a secret – that he knows this scene is bad. 

"Die" is a strong word. The sentence before it subverts its meaning, so that instead of enhancing fear, the strength of the word enhances the humor of the sentence. Marcus does have a problem, but it is an artistic problem rather than a survival problem. The sentence spends most of its words showing who Marcus is in an indirect fashion.

Give me those implications! I really like learning about characters from their thoughts and actions. It's no wonder I keep buying all Olivia Dade's books. 

It's very hot today, and my proofreader is away. Please forgive any typos or reduced clarity. You can tell me about them! And I will correct them later. 

Wishing you all comfort and safety, Anna

Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

One Hundred Years of Solitude

 

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who would go on to win the Nobel Prize for literature, published One Hundred Years of Solitude in 1967. The first sentence, in English translation, is: "Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice." 

There's a life-threatening situation in this sentence: "as he faced the firing squad." However, it is placed gently in the middle of the sentence, with words directing our attention elsewhere on either side of it. The opening of the sentence, "Many years later," places the firing squad at a distant time – although the firing squad is deadly, it isn't happening now, which makes it much less urgent. Humans tend to discount future problems. What can be done, now, about something that will happen many years later? 

The last part of the sentence also softens the tension. When faced with the firing squad, the main character doesn't scream or cry or beg or sweat. He "was to remember" – he thought of his past. That could be an escape or a way to grieve what he is losing. It is a mental action rather than a physical action. Remembering can connect to any emotion. It is neutral until we know more. Because it is neutral and internal, it also reduces the tension of facing the firing squad. 

Notice also how the sentence telescopes through time. There are three time periods in the sentence. One is the implied present – a time many years before the firing squad. The second is the day of the firing squad, many years after the present. The third time is "that distant afternoon" when Colonel Aureliano Buendia was a boy. The sentence stretches from boyhood, through adulthood, to probable death. It covers the length of a life. 

"Colonel Aureliano Buendia" suggests a man of power. He holds rank. He receives the respect of a long, full name. Aureliano might tie to Marcus Aurelius, the stoic emperor of the Roman empire. Buendia breaks down into buen dia, a fortunate day. These names, too, suggest good fortune and strength. They are clues that he had a strong prime of life. The stretched time of the sentence suggests his life was long, as well. 

The childhood memory that he will return to is "when his father took him to discover ice." For contemporary North American readers, ice is too common to discover. It is in our drinks and in our freezers since before we retain memories. To discover ice, it must be something the boy had not yet encountered – something rare. If we didn't know ice, what a wonder it would be. This is a good memory: a father taking a child on a wondrous yet safe adventure. Because the boy didn't yet know ice, he may be quite young. The times in this sentence may begin with his earliest memories, cross the peak of his influence, and end with his death. 

I haven't completed this book. The sentences are lovely, and I was feeling too impatient for the wandering strategy of the story. I think, like the first sentence, the entire story wants to embrace a wide view, not only of time, but of character and place. I do think the first sentence shows a very interesting technique. It contains the basic elements of a hook – a character in a high tension situation – and then chooses to look at a much longer period of time, letting the tension slip away in favor of detail and nostalgia. When would this be the perfect entry into a story?

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

 

The Raven and the Reindeer

 

T. Kingfisher recently won the Andre Norton Nebula Award for Middle Grade and Young Adult Fiction for her novel, The Wizard's Guide to Defensive Baking. That book was outstanding. The Raven and the Reindeer is one of her fresh takes on fairy tales, and the first sentence drew me in. 

She starts the story like this: "Once upon a time, there was a boy born with frost in his eyes and frost in his heart." 

I've had a good, long day helping others solve writing problems. I'm going to indulge myself and try something a little different with today's first sentence post. 

My usual practice is to see how much I can draw out of the sentence on its own. Then I may discover that a single word has so many ties to custom, nature, and literature that it pulls all the universe into my discussion of a single sentence. 

On the other hand, there are sometimes sentences that I decide not to review because they don't fit the rest of the book. I usually read the entire book before I write about its first sentence here. If the first sentence sets my expectations wrongly for the rest of the book, or turns out to be of a different quality or a different tone than the rest of the book, I pass on it. After all, I like to show good first sentences, and part of what makes a good first sentence is that it opens the door to the world of the story. A misleading sentence doesn't serve that purpose. 

How can I talk about the fit between a sentence and the rest of the book, when it takes me paragraphs to discuss a sentence alone? I'll need to take a broader view. It helps that The Raven and the Reindeer is inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's story, "The Snow Queen," which is somewhat well-known and in the public domain, so you can consult it if you wish. 

The sentence starts with a time stamp, "Once upon a time," which puts us in mythic time. Then it gives us a character, "a boy was born," and a possible problem "with frost in his eyes and frost in his heart." That last portion has a lovely parallel construction. 

What does it mean to have "frost in his eyes?" We soon discover that the boy, named Kay, has both pale eyes and eyes that see the world critically. What does it mean to have "frost in his heart?" We have a phrase, cold-hearted, that is similar. It means to have little care for others. The story reveals that this is true of Kay – and he also cherishes snow – so much so, that one day, he approaches a sorceress of snow and lets her take him away, without a thought for his family and friends. 

The bulk of the story follows Gerta, the neighbor girl who is devoted to him, and how she journeys to bring him home again. 

So I could talk about how the words "boy" and "heart" in the sentence suggest that we will look at first love. Does this match the story line of the book? In playful ways, it does, for Gerta pushes herself through great hazards to find Kay. 

Then there's the word "frost," appearing twice. The book continues with many images of frost and snow and ice. It talks about the cold, both of the weather and the heart, and how to survive it. 

"Eyes" in the first sentence begins an entire thread of visions and how people see and don't, continued throughout the story. "Heart," too, is the start of a series on what people feel or don't, and how they act on it. 

"Once upon a time" promises us an enchanted world, and the story generously fulfills it with strange magics and arcane sights. There are gorgeous set pieces here, like the reindeer road and the Snow Queen's castle of ice, that are marvels that still feel an organic piece of this world. 

In short, this first sentence is an excellent microcosm of the story to come. It has been a true pleasure for me to reflect on it and how well it fits with the story it opens. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Raisa Milova on Unsplash