Good writing in any genre is...
- Thread starter ffreak
- Start date
ffreak
old man
- Joined
- Jul 28, 2003
- Posts
- 1,262
Memory is a selection of images, some elusive, others printed indelibly on the brain.
I was 10 years old the summer I killed my father.
-opening lines to Eve's Bayou
Even screen writers do it well (sometimes).
I love great first lines - and great last lines.
I was 10 years old the summer I killed my father.
-opening lines to Eve's Bayou
Even screen writers do it well (sometimes).
I love great first lines - and great last lines.
G
Guest
Guest
The Return of the Native
Ah, dearest Gauche. Such a wonderfully surprising concinnity to discover this evening.
I love this book, I reread it every few years (first read at 23), and love to read it aloud. I am Eustacia Vye, but without her faults, haha. I may just begin rereading it tonight, it is perfect for my mood. I already see the landscapes of it, I am there nearly. . . especially in its nights.
The book was 'given' to me by a fine English professor (she was Irish) who 'taught' me to read at 23. She gave me all the great Irish writers, and confidence in my own writing. (I ended up scaring her with my passion for literature.)
You've called these joys forth by your quote and comment.
Mille grazie, caro mio,
Purr
Edited to add more of the opening page:
A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as Egdon Heath embrowned itself moment by moment. Overhead the hollow stretch of whitish cloud shutting out the sky was as a tent which had the whole heath for its floor. The heaven being spread with this pallid screen and the earth with the darkest vegetation, their meeting-line at the horizon was clearly marked. In such contrast the heath wore the appearance of an instalment of night which had taken up its place before its astronomical hour was come: darkness had to a great extent arrived hereon, while day stood distinct in the sky.
Ah, dearest Gauche. Such a wonderfully surprising concinnity to discover this evening.
I love this book, I reread it every few years (first read at 23), and love to read it aloud. I am Eustacia Vye, but without her faults, haha. I may just begin rereading it tonight, it is perfect for my mood. I already see the landscapes of it, I am there nearly. . . especially in its nights.
The book was 'given' to me by a fine English professor (she was Irish) who 'taught' me to read at 23. She gave me all the great Irish writers, and confidence in my own writing. (I ended up scaring her with my passion for literature.)
You've called these joys forth by your quote and comment.
Mille grazie, caro mio,
Purr
Edited to add more of the opening page:
A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as Egdon Heath embrowned itself moment by moment. Overhead the hollow stretch of whitish cloud shutting out the sky was as a tent which had the whole heath for its floor. The heaven being spread with this pallid screen and the earth with the darkest vegetation, their meeting-line at the horizon was clearly marked. In such contrast the heath wore the appearance of an instalment of night which had taken up its place before its astronomical hour was come: darkness had to a great extent arrived hereon, while day stood distinct in the sky.
Last edited by a moderator:
raphy
Dum Vivimus, Vivamus
- Joined
- Jul 21, 2003
- Posts
- 4,257
ffreak said:
First lines and last lines are *SO* important, I swear.. I always try and make sure the first line (or paragraph) of ANYTHING I write grabs the reader right away, and the last line should leave the reader with exactly the sort of feeling you've been trying to engender for the last X number of pages.
It's like writing music. That intro and outro are indelibly etched into your memory.
G
Guest
Guest
Ultimate first and last lines
I could not let this pass. Finnegan's Wake by James Joyce is meant to begin, again, as soon as it ends, and on and on. No, I haven't read the entire thing but I love long bits of it and its neverending-not-quite-beginning. If I'd had a daughter I would have named her Anna Livia. Do read it aloud.
The beginning:
riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodious vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
The ending:
If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he'd come from Arkangels, I sink I'd die down over his feet, humbly dumbly, only to washup. Yes tid. There's where. First. We pass through grass behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the
(My favorite Joyce: the last story of Dubliners, "The Dead". Such exquisite prose and artistry, such a perfect ending.)
I could not let this pass. Finnegan's Wake by James Joyce is meant to begin, again, as soon as it ends, and on and on. No, I haven't read the entire thing but I love long bits of it and its neverending-not-quite-beginning. If I'd had a daughter I would have named her Anna Livia. Do read it aloud.
The beginning:
riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodious vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
The ending:
If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he'd come from Arkangels, I sink I'd die down over his feet, humbly dumbly, only to washup. Yes tid. There's where. First. We pass through grass behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the
(My favorite Joyce: the last story of Dubliners, "The Dead". Such exquisite prose and artistry, such a perfect ending.)
Similar threads
