Fuck Yeah First Lines

Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman.

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler.

Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.

There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.

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.

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.

I have never begun a novel with more misgiving.

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

You better not never tell nobody but God.

"To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, "first you have to die."

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon.

Lou Levy, top man of Leeds Music Publishing company, took me up in a taxi to the Pythian Temple on West 70th Street to show me the pocket sized recording studio where Bill Haley and His Comets had recorded "Rock Around the Clock" — then down to Jack Dempsey's restaurant on 58th and Broadway, where we sat down in a red leather upholstery booth facing the front window.

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.

Mother died today.