In the words of a Jon McGregor title, there are So Many Ways To Begin. I’ve been in search of the best beginnings, or more specifically first lines, from Notts fiction and discovered a variety of gems. As Graham Greene’s opening sentence in The End of the Affair explains, A
story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of
experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead.
The same can be said for the opener. A good first
sentence often occurs at a key point of conflict or interest. They operate to hook the reader and sometimes they can stand alone, memorable and
compelling. Several years ago, I compiled a list of my favourite first lines
from crime fiction. You can read them at the bottom of this post but, before you
do, allow me to present some of the best opening sentences - in my opinion - from stories or authors
associated in some way with Nottinghamshire.
Probably the best-known first line that can be associated with Nottingham is:
All children, except one, grow up.
Peter Pan by J M Barrie. The story is said to have been partly influenced by the writer's time in Nottingham in 1883/4.
And now for our best offerings:
Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him.
Probably the best-known first line that can be associated with Nottingham is:
All children, except one, grow up.
Peter Pan by J M Barrie. The story is said to have been partly influenced by the writer's time in Nottingham in 1883/4.
And now for our best offerings:
Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him.
Brighton Rock by Graham Greene. It's possible that there would have been no Brighton Rock if its author had not spent time in Nottingham, in 1925/6.
The moment I heard how McAra died I should
have walked away.
The Ghost by
Robert Harris
Even on the night she died, Rose Shepherd
couldn’t sleep.
Scared To Live by
Stephen Booth
I knew I was a target when I opened the cottage door that morning and found, sitting on the doorstep, a pair of false teeth.
I knew I was a target when I opened the cottage door that morning and found, sitting on the doorstep, a pair of false teeth.
Dead on Course
by Glenis Wilson
Life through a phone is a lie.
Who’s That Girl?
by Mhairi McFarlane
He approached her from behind – as he had
done every night since he started to visit her.
Dream Lover by
D Michelle Gent
People think when someone is stabbed they
just fall down on the ground and die.
Something Might
Happen by Julie Myerson
There were ghosts at the loch house long
before we arrived with ours.
The Lives of Ghosts
by Megan Taylor
Mr. Broke of Covenden had for the enlightenment of his middle life one son and six daughters.
Broke of Covenden by J C Snaith
Some people’d say I was destined for all this killing when Uncle Frank came into my life but it goes back further than that.
The Killing Jar
by Nicola Monaghan
They break down the door at the end of
December and carry the body away.
Even the Dogs
by Jon McGregor
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we
refuse to take it tragically.
Lady Chatterley’s
Lover by D H Lawrence
Our best exponent of the first sentence could well be
Alan Sillitoe. Here are a few of his finest:
The rowdy gang of singers who sat at the
scattered tables saw Arthur walk unsteadily to the head of the stairs, and
though they must have all know he was dead drunk, and seen the danger he would
soon be in, no one attempted to talk to him and lead him back to his seat.
Saturday Night and
Sunday Morning by Alan Sillitoe
As soon as I got to Borstal they made me a
long-distance cross-country runner.
The Loneliness of
the Long-distance Runner by Alan Sillitoe
I remember childhood as an intense and wonderful
love-affair that was stamped out by the wilful circumstances of growing up.
A Start in Life
by Alan Sillitoe
Facing each other across the table they took
care their eyes wouldn’t meet, experienced to know that the ley lines of mutual
attraction ought not be played with irresponsibility.
Alligator
Playground by Alan Sillitoe
And the award for the longest first sentence (from a
Nottingham book) goes to:
It was the night Milt Jackson came to town:
Milt Jackson, who for more than twenty years had been a member of one of the
most famous jazz groups in the world, the Modern Jazz Quartet; who had gone
into the studio on Christmas Eve, 1954, and along with Miles Davis and
Thelonious Monk, recorded one of Resnick’s all-time favourite pieces, ‘Bag’s Groove’;
the same Milt Jackson who was standing now behind his vibraphone on the stage
of the Broadway Media Centre’s Cinema Two, brought there with his new quartet
as part of the Centre’s Film and Jazz Festival; Milt, handsome and dapper in
his dark grey suit, black handkerchief poking folded from its breast pocket,
floral tie, wedding ring broad on his finger and catching the light as he
reaches down for the yellow mallets resting across his instrument; Milton
‘Bags’ Jackson, born Detroit, Michigan on New Year’s Day, 1923, and looking
nothing like his seventy-three years, turning now to nod at the young piano
player – relatively young – and the crowd that is packed into the auditorium,
Resnick amongst them, holds its breath, and as Jackson raises a mallet shoulder
high to strike the first note, the bleeper attached to the inside pocket of
Resnick’s jacket intrudes its own insistent sound.
Still Water by
John Harvey
If you’re wondering if John Harvey’s got a great shorter first line in
him, try this belter:
The man running down the middle of the
Alfreton Road at five past three that Sunday morning was, as Divine would say
later, absolutely stark bollock naked.
Living Proof by
John Harvey
With attention now turned to crime fiction, here’s that list I referred to, of my favourite first sentences from crime fiction. Enjoy:
This time there would be no witnesses.
Dirk Gently's
Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adams
It was the bright yellow tape that finally
convinced me my sister was dead.
The Damage Done
by Hilary Davidson
It was a wrong number that started it, the
telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other
end asking for someone he was not.
City of Glass
by Paul Auster
They were in one of the “I” states when Zeke
told Isaac he had to ride in the trunk for a little while.
By a Spider’s
Thread by Laura Lippman
I wasn’t doing any work that day, just
catching up on my foot-dangling.
Goldfish by Raymond
Chandler
I rode a streetcar to the edge of the city
limits, then I started to walk, swinging the old thumb whenever I saw a car
coming.
After Dark, My
Sweet by Jim Thompson
When the guy with asthma finally came in
from the fire escape, Parker rabbit-punched him and took his gun away.
The Mourner by
Richard Stark
I opened my eyes to see the rat taking a
piss in my coffee mug.
Crooked Little Vein
by Warren Ellis
We were about to give up and call it a night
when somebody dropped the girl off the bridge.
Darker Than Amber by
John D MacDonald
It is cold at six-forty in the morning on a
March day in Paris, and seems even colder when a man is about to be executed by
firing squad.
The Day of the
Jackal by Frederick Forsyth
It’s hard to get lost when you’re coming
home from work.
Blonde Faith by
Walter Mosley
Some years later, on a tugboat in the Gulf
of Mexico, Joe Coughlin’s feet were placed in a tub of cement.
Dennis Lehane
by Live By Night
A big noisy wind out of the northeast, full
of February chill, herded the tourists off the afternoon beach, driving them to
cover, complaining bitterly.
The Quick Red Fox
by John D MacDonald
The village of Holcomb stands on the high
wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call ‘out
there'.
In Cold Blood by
Truman Capote
She was ten years old, but knew enough to
wipe clean the handle of the bloody kitchen knife.
A Bitter Taste
by Annie Hauxwell
I first heard Personville called Poisonville
by a red-haired mucker named Hickey Dewey in the Big Ship in Butte.
Red Harvest by Dashiell
Hammett
Arthur Henry Spain, butcher, of Harlow
Place, Flaxborough, awoke one morning from a dream in which he had been asking
all his customers how to spell ‘phlegm’ and thought – quite inconsequentially:
I haven’t seen anything of Lilian lately.
Lonelyheart 4122
by Colin Watson
Winter came in like an antichrist with a
bomb.
The Pusher by Ed McBain
The Pusher by Ed McBain
The night of my mother's funeral, Linda
Dawson cried on my shoulder, put her tongue in my mouth and asked me to find
her husband.
The Wrong Kind of
Blood by Declan Hughes
It is one of the sorry human habits to play
the game of: What was I doing when it happened?
The Girl in the
Plain Brown Wrapper by John D MacDonald
Death is my beat.
The Poet by
Michael Connelly
An hour before her shift started, an hour
before she was even supposed to be there, they rolled the first corpse through
the door.
Girl Missing by
Tess Gerritsen
Ten days after the war ended, my sister
Laura drove a car off a bridge.
The Blind Assassin
by Margaret Atwood
Jack Reacher ordered espresso, double, no
peel, no cube, foam cup, no china, and before it arrived he saw a man’s life
change forever.
The Hard Way by
Lee Child
I never knew her in life.
The Black Dahlia
by James Ellroy
There were two armed men in his backyard
when Detective Ash Rashid came home from work, and neither looked happy to see
him.
The Outsider by
Chris Culver
The business of murder took time, patience,
skill, and a tolerance for the monotonous.
Vengeance in Death by
J D Robb
I was standing on my head in the middle of
my office when the door opened and the best looking woman I’d seen in three
weeks walked in.
Stalking The Angel
by Robert Crais
Four months and twenty-two days after he
stopped taking his medication, Robin Greaves dragged the chair out from under
the desk and sat down opposite the private investigator.
Two-Way Split by
Allan Guthrie
The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he
was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of the Dancers.
The Long Goodbye
by Raymond Chandler
When the car stopped rolling, Parker kicked
out the windshield and crawled through onto the wrinkled hood, Glock first.
Backflash by
Richard Stark
One evening, it was towards the end of
October, Harry Arno said to the woman he’d been seeing on and off the past few
years, “I’ve made a decision. I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told
anyone before in my life.”
Pronto by
Elmore Leonard
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley
again.
Rebecca by
Daphne du Maurier
When the phone
rang, Parker was in the garage, killing a man.
Firebreak by
Richard Stark
When I finally caught up with Abraham
Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball
Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the
heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.
The Last Good Kiss
by James Crumley
Eunice Parchman killed the Coverdale family
because she could not read or write.
A Judgement in
Stone by Ruth Rendell