First Lines - Books

Animal Farm (George Orwell):

Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes.

Disgrace (J.M. Coetzee):

For a man of his age, fifty-two, divorced, he has, to his mind, solved the problem of sex rather well.

A Clockwork Orange (Anthony Burgees):

There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar trying to make up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening. The Korova milkbar sold milk-plus, milk plus vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom, which is what we were drinking. This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old ultra-violence.

The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini):

'I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975.'

The boy in the striped pajamas (John Boyne):

"One afternoon, when Bruno came home from school, he was surprised to find Maria, the family's maid - who always kept her head bowed and never looked up from the carpet - standing in his bedroom, pulling all his belongings out of the wardrobe and packing them in four large wooden crates, even the things he's hidden at the back that belonged to him and were nobody else's business."

1984 (George Orwell):

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

The Old Man and the Sea (Ernest Hemingway):

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.

The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald):

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

Trainspotting (Irvine Welsh):

"Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday night. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?"

Frankeinstein (Mary Shelley):

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