Somewhere between the first word and the third line, I decide whether or not I like the way an author writes. I’m not quite sure why I’m like that; I just am.

The first sentence of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (Jonathan Safran Foer) fascinated me: “What about a teakettle?” His writing style is incredibly unique, anyway, but that line drew me in.

Anything by e.e. cummings…I’m incredibly fond of him, but I talked about that earlier.

Eavan Boland’s Quarantine had me from the repetition in the first two lines. “In the worst hour of the worst season / of the worst year of the whole people…” magic.

F. Scott Fitzgerald has a way of drawing you in, in those first couple sentences. He writes a world that I miss, even though I never lived there. The Ice Palace seems to me such an accurate representation of the differences between the North and the South…I love Sally Carrol. Her languid behavior perfectly captures a 20s Southern belle with money.

Emerson…well he’s just sort of wonderful, too.

I feel in love with Chase Triskell just because of one of his titles: Dog Language.

Maybe it’s not fair to make these decisions so soon. I mean, the classics take some loving; luckily I didn’t always decide so quickly. As I remember them, their respective first sentences don’t seem to be terribly interesting. But they’re still wonderful.

Does anyone else decide so quickly, or am I the only quirkily impulsive creative writer in the blogosphere?


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