Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Our Bodies Our Shelves

"When the lights went off the accompanist kissed her.  Maybe he had been turning toward her just before it was completely dark, maybe he was lifting his hands."

Opening lines of a novel intrigue:  Does one read into it the author's intent?  Did some savvy editor find this particular gem to place just in the right place?  Straightly forward. For readers, nay, browsers, let's pretend.  Journey.  An independent bookstore, daring to spend some time alone in the sloe.gin.fiz. of what remains of true shelves. Or, even, venture sometime, to a local public library, when you're hungry.  Feed.

That. First. Sentence. Utterance of what's to come.

Long before the 140 characters of Twitter:  I remember.  I remember when sentences gave a glimpse of Promise. 

"I have been afraid of putting air in a tire ever since I saw a tractor tire blow up and throw Newt Hardbine's father over the top of the Standard Oil Sign."

"Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women."

"It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love."

"I was sitting in a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster."

"Anneth was dancing in her tight red dress and everyone was watching her, the way she closed her eyes and felt the music running up and down the backs of her legs, the way the curls trembled down in her eyes as she threw her hair about, stomping her feet with one leg proudly thrust through the high slit that ran up one side of her dress, and it was like seeing joy made into a human form that could travel across a dance floor--- it was like seeing the music itself."

There is so much noise in the world right now.  And, goodness knows, we are all so busy.  And. Hungry.

There is time for that first promising sentence.  Surprise yourself.  And it doesn't cost one. red. cent.

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