What's your favorite first line of a book?

When I read, the first page of a book is a test. If the words click, I think, Okay, I’m in the hands of a good author, he/she will take good care of me. I relax and sink into the rest. For my favorite books, I even remember their opening lines. Do you?

What’s your favorite first line of a book? (I’d love to add a few titles to my reading list, if you wouldn’t mind posting in the comments.)

For my own stories, I agonize over the beginning like you wouldn’t believe. I noticed that I tend to gravitate toward certain types of openings.

Funny and a little shocking:

Luanne Mayfair might have killed her boss a little. Fine, a lot. Pretty much all the way. God, that sounded bad. But he was a sleazebag. Honest. The maids at the Mushroom Mile Motel that Earl Cosgrove managed often prayed for lightning to strike the lecherous bastard. Alas, God had seen fit to send Luanne instead.
(--from BROSLIN BRIDE by Dana Marton)

Something relatable:

Love was blind, people said. But lust was blind, deaf, and reckless. When lust took the reins, people set aside their best judgement and took terrible risks, Broslin PD’s Captain Ethan Bing thought as he strode around the blood-soaked patch of dirt, notebook in hand, scribbling.
(--from DEATHTRAP by Dana Marton)

In the middle of the action, life-and-death opening:

    The worst time for a police cruiser to fly off a bridge was when you were handcuffed in the back. Joe Kessler braced as the Hummer crashed into the cruiser from behind and sent the Crown Victoria over the railing.
    The two Philly cops up front yelled all the way down, “Hang on! Hang on! Oh, hell, dammit!”
    Joe and Gomez, free-flying in the back, swore more colorfully than that as the car hit the river with a bone-rattling crash. Joe smashed into the metal screen that separated him from the scrambling officers, Gomez on top of him, the kid’s pointy elbow slamming into Joe’s cheekbone.
    God, he hated undercover work.
(from DEATHBLOW by Dana Marton)

What the heck is going on?

Kate Bridges thought attending her own funeral would be the hardest part.
(--from DEATHWATCH by Dana Marton)

Of course, if you set up a question with the first line, you’d better answer it. Don’t leave the reader disoriented! So, in DEATHWATCH, that opening line is followed by:
    She barely breathed inside the FBI van as she watched the live footage from a dozen hidden cameras, and listened to the clear notes of “Amazing Grace” floating from the organ.
    Her family and closest friends filled up the first pew. Her mother sat wedged between Kate’s father and sister, clutching her black pashmina scarf around her shoulders. The chapel always stayed cool, although the California sun radiated merciless heat on the Spanish-style church on the outskirts of Los Angeles.
    The images on the FBI monitors were grainy but the audio perfect, catching even the softest sobs of grief. The heartrending sound stabbed Kate in the middle of her chest.
    “This is a mistake.” She sprung from her chair, the sudden movement bringing inevitable pain. “I can’t.” She gritted her teeth. “Nobody should have to go through this. I want to tell them now.”
    The forty-something agent next to her shot her a sharp look, her eyes the color of gunmetal. Everything about the woman was no-nonsense, all business, down to her short black hair and meticulous charcoal suit, paired with black sneakers meant for running. “In a little while.”
    Tension sizzled between them for an interminable moment, then Kate lowered herself back into the chair, but only because the way Cirelli was watching her said the agent would tackle Kate if she tried to leave.
    Inside the chapel, the stout priest behind the coffin was encouraging the grieving family to accept God’s will. “We cannot hope to know the mind of our Heavenly Father, but his mercy is everlasting…”
    Kate believed in that mercy with all her heart. After all, she was alive. She rubbed her fingertips over the uneven rows of her handknit Christmas sweater, not what the average person would pick for a funeral in July, but if she ever needed her lucky sweater, this was the time.
    Between the sweater and the figure-eight brace she wore to stabilize her broken collarbone, she looked a sight. She was in rough shape, but not rough enough, thank God, for a funeral.
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What do you think? Do these work for you? I’d love to hear your opinion. And, of course, would love it if you shared your favorite lines.

Thank you!!!
Dana Marton
Next out: DEATHMARCH, Broslin Creek series (Feb. 2, 2021)