Famous First Words

[famous1stwords]

He came out of the Underground at Hyde Park Corner with his head lowered, ignoring the people who pressed around him and leaving it to them to steer out of his way. He disliked the crowds. They affronted him. If he allowed himself to notice them, he found himself thinking: Too many people in this bloody city; we need a massacre to thin their numbers. When he caught himself thinking this, he felt sick. He had no desire to kill anyone, but the hatred of the crowd was uncontrollable. For the same reason, he avoided looking at the advertisements that line the escalators of London tubes; too many dislikes were triggered off by the most casual glimpse. The half-clothed forms that advertised women's corsets and stockings brought a burning sensation to his throat, an instantaneous shock, like throwing a match against a petrol-soaked rag.

Colin Wilson, Ritual in the Dark.

[famous1stwords]

Inanna was called Queen of Heaven and Earth, Queen of Having a Body, Queen of Sex and Eating, Queen of Being Human, and she went into the underworld in order to represent the inevitability of organic death. She gave up seven things to do it, which are not meant to be understood as real things but as symbols of that thing Inanna could do better than anyone, which was Being Alive. She met her sister Erishkegal there, who was also Queen of Being Human, but of all the things Inanna could not bear: Queen of Breaking a Body, Queen of Bone and Incest, Queen of the Stillborn, Queen of Mass Extinction. And Erishkegal and Inanna wrestled together on the floor of the underworld, naked and muscled and hurting, but because dying is the most human of all human things, Inanna’s skull broke in her sister’s hands and her body was hung up on a nail on the wall Erishkegal had kept for her.

Catherynne M. Valente, Silently and Very Fast.

[elbailedesanvito]

La casa estaba ahora acallada y ni el menor sonido de las calles brumosas quebrantaba el silencio. Tessie yacía entre cojines, su rostro era una mancha gris en la penumbra, pero tenía sus manos apretadas en las mías y yo sabía que ella sabía y que leía mis pensamientos como yo los suyos, porque habíamos comprendido el misterio de las Híadas y ante nosotros se alzaba el Fantasma de la Verdad. Entonces, mientras nos respondíamos el uno a la otra, velozmente, en silencio, pensamiento tras pensamiento, las sombras se agitaron en la penumbra que nos rodeaba y a lo lejos en las calles distantes oímos un sonido. Cada vez más cerca, se escuchó el lóbrego crujido de ruedas, cada vez más cerca todavía, y ahora cesó afuera, ante la puerta. Me arrastré hasta la ventana y vi una carroza fúnebre empenachada de negro. El portal, abajo, se abrió y se volvió a cerrar; me arrastré temblando hasta la puerta y le eché la llave, pero no había candado ni cerradura que pudiera impedir el paso de la criatura que venía en busca del Signo Amarillo. Y ahora la oía avanzar muy lentamente por el vestíbulo. Y ahora estaba a la puerta y los candados se pudrieron a su tacto. Ahora había entrado. Con ojos que se me saltaban de las órbitas trate de escudriñar en la oscuridad, pero cuando entró en el cuarto, no la vi. Sólo cuando la sentí envolverme en su frío abrazo blando grité y luché con furia mortal, pero tenía las manos inutilizadas y me arrancó el broche de el ónix de la chaqueta y me golpeó en plena cara. Entonces, al caer, oí el grito leve de Tessie y su espíritu voló al encuentro de Dios, y mientras caía deseé poder seguirla, porque sabía que el Rey de Amarillo había abierto su andrajoso manto y ahora sólo era posible implorar ante Cristo.

Robert W. Chambers. El Signo Amarillo.

[famous1stwords]

"When Lady Ann Sercomb married George Smiley towards the end of the war she described him to her astonished Mayfair friends as breathtakingly ordinary. When she left him two years later in favour of a Cuban motor racing driver, she announced enigmatically that if she hadn’t left him then, she never could have done; and Viscount Sawley made a special journey to his club to observe that the cat was out of the bag. This remark, which enjoyed a brief season as a mot, can only be understood by those who knew Smiley. Short, fat, and of a quiet disposition, he appeared to spend a lot of money on really bad clothes, which hung about his squat frame like skin on a shrunken toad. Sawley, in fact, declared at the wedding that ‘Sercomb was mated to a bullfrog in a sou’wester’. And Smiley, unaware of this description, had waddled down the aisle in search of the kiss that would turn him into a Prince" John le Carré. Call for the dead

[famous1stwords]

                                                    1  

What was the worst thing you've ever done? I won't tell you that, but I'll tell you the worst thing that ever happened to me ... the most dreadful thing ...  

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Because he thought that he would have problems taking the child over the border into Canada, he drove south, skirting the cities whenever they came and taking the anonymous freeways which were like a separate country, as travel was itself like a separate country. The sameness both comforted and stimulated him, so that on the first day he was able to drive for twenty hours straight through. They ate at McDonald's and at root-beer stands: when he was hungry, he left the freeway and took a state highway parallel to it, knowing that a drive-in was never more than ten or twenty miles away. Then he woke up the child and they both gnawed at their hamburgers or chili dogs, the child never speaking more than to tell him what she wanted. Most of the time she slept. That first night, the man remembered the light bulbs illuminating his license plates, and though this would later prove to be unnecessary swung off the freeway onto a dark country road long enough to unscrew the light bulbs and toss them into a field. Then he took handfuls of mud from beside the road and smeared them over the plates. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he went back around to the driver's side and opened the door. The child was sleeping with her back straight against the seat, her mouth closed. She appeared to be perfectly composed. He still did not know what he was going to have to do to her.

Peter Straub. Ghost Story.

[famous1stwords]

Helen of Troy awakes just before dawn to the sound of air raid sirens. She feels along the cushions of her bed but her current lover, Hockenberry, is gone—slipped out into the night again before the servants wake, acting as he always does after their nights of lovemaking, acting as if he has done something shameful, no doubt stealing his way home this very minute through the alleys and back streets where the torches burn least bright. Helen thinks that Hockenberry is a strange and sad man. Then she remembers.

My husband is dead.

Dan Simmons. Olympos.

Ilustración de Juan Giménez.

[famous1stwords]

Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, of Peleus’ son, murderous, man-killer, fated to die, sing of the rage that cost the Achaeans so many good men and sent so many vital, hearty souls down to the dreary House of Death. And while you’re at it, O Muse, sing of the rage of the gods themselves, so petulant and so powerful here on their new Olympos, and of the rage of the post-humans, dead and gone though they might be, and of the rage of those few true humans left, self-absorbed and useless though they may have become. While you are singing, O Muse, sing also of the rage of those thoughtful, sentient, serious but not so-close-to-human beings out there dreaming under the ice of Europa, dying in the sulfur-ash of Io, and being born in the cold folds of Ganymede.

Oh, and sing of me, O Muse, poor born-again-against-his-will Hockenberry—poor dead Thomas Hockenberry, Ph.D., Hockenbush to his friends, to friends long since turned to dust on a world long since left behind. Sing of my rage, yes, of myrage, O Muse, small and insignificant though that rage may be when measured against the anger of the immortal gods, or when compared to the wrath of the god-killer, Achilles.

On second thought, O Muse, sing of nothing to me. I know you. I have been bound and servant to you. O, Muse, you incomparable bitch. And I do not trust you, O Muse. Not one little bit.

Dan Simmons. Ilium.

Ilustración de Juan Giménez.

[famous1stwords]

"You know, I'm really much exercised about the Fourth Dimension," said the fair-haired young man, with a suitable earnestness in his voice. "Um," said his companion, staring up at the night sky. "It seems very much in evidence these days. Do you not think you catch a glimpse of it in the drawings of Aubrey Beardsley?" "Um," said his companion. They stood together on a low rise to the east of the sleepy East Anglian town of Cottersall, watching the stars, shivering a little in the chill February air. They are both young men in their early twenties. The one who is occupied with the Fourth Dimension is called Bruce Fox; be is tall and fair, and works as junior clerk in the Norwich firm of lawyers, Prendergast and Tout. The other, who has so far vouchsafed us only an urn or two, although he is to figure largely as the hero of our account, is by name Gregory Rolles. He is tall and dark, with gray eyes set in his handsome and intelligent face. He and Fox have sworn to Think Large, thus distinguishing themselves, at least in their own minds, from all the rest of the occupants of Cottersall in these last years of the nineteenth century. Brian Aldiss. The Saliva Tree. Ilustración de Tarphelius.

[famous1stwords]

"Tonight we're going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man." The guy who said that was a sergeant who didn't look five years older than me. So if he'd ever killed a man in combat, silently or otherwise, he'd done it as an infant. I already knew eighty ways to kill people, but most of them were pretty noisy. I sat up straight in my chair and assumed a look of polite attention and fell asleep with my eyes open. So did most everybody else. We'd learned that they never scheduled anything important for these after-chop classes. Joe Haldeman. The Forever War.

[famous1stwords]

On a dreary winter's day, with rain sweeping across Lyonesse Town, Queen Sollace went into labor. She was taken to the lying-in room and attended by two midwives, four maids, Balhamel the physician and the crone named Dyldra, who was profound in the lore of herbs, and by some considered a witch. Dyldra was present by the wish of Queen Sollace, who found more comfort in faith than logic. Jack Vance. Lyonesse. Ilustración de Michael Kaluta.

[famous1stwords]

Ten and a half hours before a mounted knight with a machine gun tried to kill her, tech journalist Miriam Beckstein lost her job. Before the day was out, her pink slip would set in train a chain of events that would topple governments, trigger civil wars, and kill thousands. It would be the biggest scoop in her career, in any journalist's career—bigger than Watergate, bigger than 9/11—and it would be Miriam's story. But as of seven o'clock in the morning, the story lay in her future: All she knew was that it was a rainy Monday morning in October, she had a job to do and copy to write, and there was an editorial meeting scheduled for ten. Charles Stross. The Family Trade.

[famous1stwords]

When I was a boy my brother David and I had to go to bed early whether we were sleepy or not. In summer particularly, bedtime often came before sunset; and because our dormitory was in the east wing of the house, with a broad window facing the central courtyard and thus looking west, the hard, pinkish light sometimes streamed in for hours while we lay staring out at my father’s crippled monkey perched on a flaking parapet, or telling stories, one led to another, with soundless gestures. Our dormitory was on the uppermost floor of the house, and our window had a shutter of twisted iron which we were forbidden to open. I suppose the theory was that a burglar might, on some rainy morning (this being the only time he could hope to find the roof, which was fitted out as a sort of pleasure garden, deserted) let down a rope and so enter our room unless the shutter was closed. The object of this hypothetical and very courageous thief would not, of course, be merely to steal us. Children, whether boys or girls, were extraordinarily cheap-in Port-Mimizon; and indeed I was once told that my father who had formerly traded in them no longer did so because of the poor market. Whether or not this was true, everyone—or nearly everyone—knew of some professional who would furnish what was wanted, within reason, at a low price. These men made the children of the poor and the careless their study, and should you want, say, a brown-skinned, red-haired little girl or one who was plump or who lisped, a blond boy like David or a pale, brown-haired, brown-eyed boy such as I, they could provide one in a few hours. Gene Wolfe. The Fifth Head of Cerberus. Ilustración de Eric Orchard.

[famous1stwords]

Do not set foot in my office. That’s Dad’s rule. But the phone’d rung twenty-five times. Normal people give up after ten or eleven, unless it’s a matter of life or death. Don’t they? Dad’s got an answering machine like James Garner’s in The Rockford Files with big reels of tape. But he’s stopped leaving it switched on recently. Thirty rings, the phone got to. Julia couldn’t hear it up in her converted attic ’cause ‘Don’t You Want Me?’ by Human League was thumping out dead loud. Forty rings. Mum couldn’t hear ’cause the washing machine was on berserk cycle and she was hoovering the living room. Fifty rings. That’s just not normal. S’pose Dad’d been mangled by a juggernaut on the M5 and the police only had this office number ’cause all his other ID’d got incinerated? We could lose our final chance to see our charred father in the terminal ward.

So I went in, thinking of the bride going into Bluebeard’s chamber after being told not to. (Bluebeard, mind, was waiting for that to happen.) Dad’s office smells of pound notes, papery but metallic too. The blinds were down so it felt like evening, not ten in the morning. There’s a serious clock on the wall, exactly the same make as the serious clocks on the walls at school. There’s a photo of Dad shaking hands with Craig Salt when Dad got made regional sales director for Greenland (Greenland the supermarket chain, not Greenland the country). Dad’s IBM computer sits on the steel desk. Thousands of pounds, IBMs cost. The office phone’s red like a nuclear hotline and it’s got buttons you push, not the dial you get on normal phones.

David Mitchell. Black Swan Green.

Ilustración rebloggeada de 80's Touch.

[famous1stwords]

Here is a story about a man who had too much power, and a man who took too much, but don’t worry; I’m not going political on you. The man who had the power was named James Kidder and the other was his banker. Kidder was quite a guy. He was a scientist and he lived on a small island off the New England coast all by himself. He wasn’t the dwarfed little gnome of a mad scientist you read about. His hobby wasn’t personal profit, and he wasn’t a megalomaniac with a Russian name and no scruples. He wasn’t insidious, and he wasn’t even particularly subversive. He kept his hair cut and his nails clean and lived and thought like a reasonable human being. He was slightly on the baby-faced side; he was inclined to be a hermit; he was short and plump and—brilliant. His specialty was biochemistry, and he was always called Mr. Kidder. Not “Dr.” Not “Professor.” Just Mr. Kidder. Theodore Sturgeon. Microcosmic God.

[famous1stwords]

Obeying an inalienable law, things grew, growing riotous and strange in their impulse for growth. The heat, the light, the humidity-these were constant and had remained constant for . . . but nobody knew how long. Nobody cared any more for the big question that begin 'How long . ..?' or 'Why . ..?' It was no longer a place for mind. It was a place for growth, for vegetables. It was like a hothouse. Brian Aldiss. Hothouse.

[famous1stwords]

The ghost was her father's parting gift, presented by a black-clad secretary in a departure lounge at Narita. For the first two hours of the flight to London it lay forgotten in her purse, a smooth dark oblong, one side impressed with the ubiquitous Maas-Neotek logo, the other gently curved to fit the user's palm. She sat up very straight in her seat in the first-class cabin, her features composed in a small cold mask modeled after her dead mother's most characteristic expression. The surrounding seats were empty; her father had purchased the space. She refused the meal the nervous steward offered. The vacant seats frightened him, evidence of her father's wealth and power. The man hesitated, then bowed and withdrew. Very briefly, she allowed the mask her mother's smile. Ghosts, she thought later, somewhere over Germany, staring at the upholstery of the seat beside her. How well her father treated his ghosts. William Gibson. Mona Lisa Overdrive. Ilustración de Louise McLennan.

[famous1stwords]

THEY sent A SLAMHOUND on Turner's trail in New Delhi, slotted it to his pheromones and the color of his hair. It caught up with him on a street called Chandni Chauk and came scrambling for his rented BMW through a forest of bare brown legs and pedicab tires. Its core was a kilogram of recrystallized hexogene and flaked TNT.

He didn't see it coming. The last he saw of India was the pink stucco facade of a place called the Khush-Oil Hotel.

Because he had a good agent, he had a good contract. Because he had a good contract, he was in Singapore an hour after the explosion. Most of him, anyway The Dutch surgeon liked to joke about that, how an unspecified percentage ofTurner hadn't made it out of Palam International on that first flight and had to spend the night there in a shed, in a support vat.

It took the Dutchman and his team three months to put Turner together again. They cloned a square meter of skin for him, grew it on slabs of collagen and shark-cartilage polysaccharides. They bought eyes and genitals on the open market. The eyes were green.

William Gibson. Count Zero.

Ilustración de Tatsuyuki Tanaka.