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We get a lot of discussion here about openings of novels, the infamous "hook" word often being applied. It occurred to me to take a hard look at some openings of books that are famous and successful, although the openings are not so much well-known. I came out of that more convinced than ever of the single principle that makes an opening work for a reader, but I'd be interested in seeing what other people think of these.
Now, all these books were published a while ago, the most recent one in 1988. So, yes, perhaps agents/editors tastes and standards have evolved some since then. All these openings are relatively quiet and descriptive, nary an explosion or gunshot or car chase to be found. But I'd like to think if a partial of any one of these books were submitted to an agent today, the agent would at the very least request a full. Two of the four, by the way, were debut novels. You may recognize some of them, but I'd prefer for the moment not to identify the authors; I'll do that later.
See whatcha think. Why do these work, or not work, in your estimation?
Now, all these books were published a while ago, the most recent one in 1988. So, yes, perhaps agents/editors tastes and standards have evolved some since then. All these openings are relatively quiet and descriptive, nary an explosion or gunshot or car chase to be found. But I'd like to think if a partial of any one of these books were submitted to an agent today, the agent would at the very least request a full. Two of the four, by the way, were debut novels. You may recognize some of them, but I'd prefer for the moment not to identify the authors; I'll do that later.
See whatcha think. Why do these work, or not work, in your estimation?
In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together. Early every morning they would come out from the house where they lived and walk arm in arm down the street to work. The two friends were very different. The one who always steered the way was an obese and dreamy Greek. In the summer he would come out wearing a yellow or green polo shirt stuffed sloppily into his trousers in front and hanging loose behind. When it was colder he wore over this a shapeless gray sweater. His face was round and oily, with half-closed eyelids and lips that curved in a gentle, stupid smile. The other mute was tall. His eyes had a quick, intelligent expression. He was always immaculate and very soberly dressed.
Gil and I crossed the eastern divide about two by the sun. We pulled up for a look at the little town in the big valley and the mountains on the other side, with the crest of the Sierra showing faintly beyond like the rim of a day moon. We didn’t look as long as we do sometimes; after winter range we were excited about getting back to town. When the horses had stopped trembling from the last climb, Gil took off his sombrero, pushed his sweaty hair back with the same hand, and returned the sombrero, the way he did when something was going to happen. We reined to the right and went slowly down the steep stage road. It was a switch-back road, gutted by the run-off of the winter storms, and with brush beginning to grow up in it again since the stage had stopped running.
In the spring of 1931, on a lawn in Glendale, California, a man was bracing trees. It was a tedious job, for he had first to prime dead twigs, then wrap canvas buffers around weak branches, then wind rope slings over the buffers and tie them to the trunks, to hold the weight of the avocados that would ripen in the fall. Yet, although it was a hot afternoon, he took his time about it, and was conscientiously thorough, and whistled. He was a smallish man, in his middle thirties, but in spite of the stains on his trousers, he wore them with an air. His name was Herbert Pierce. When he had finished with the trees, he raked the twigs and dead branches into a pile, carried them back to the garage, and dropped them in a kindling box. Then he got out a mower and mowed the lawn.
In the spring of that year an epidemic of rabies broke out in Ether County, Georgia. The disease was carried principally by foxes and was reported first by farmers, who, in the months of April and May, shot more than seventy of the animals and turned them in to the county health officer in Cotton Point.
The heads were removed, wrapped in plastic, and sent to the state health department in Atlanta, where eleven were found to be rabid.
There is no record of human beings’ contracting the disease—the victims for the most part were cattle—although two residents of an outlying area of Cotton Point called Damp Bottoms were reportedly bitten.