Sunday, November 05, 2006
It Was A Dark And Stormy Night
Edward Bulwer-Lytton began his 1830 novel Paul Clifford with the now-famous line, "It was a dark and stormy night." In this spirit, the Bulwer-Lytton Prize is annually awarded for the worst conceivable opening line for a novel. There are many worthy nominations and some really hysterical winners. Below are two of my favorites. You can read more at http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/lyttony.htm
"She wasn't really my type, a hard-looking but untalented reporter from the local cat box liner, but the first second that the third-rate representative of the fourth estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, my sixth sense said seventh heaven was as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, so, nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam, I swept her into my longing arms, and, humming 'The Twelfth of Never,' I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth." -Wm. W. "Buddy" Ocheltree, Port Townsend, WA, 1993
As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual. -Dan McKay, Fargo, ND, 2005
"She wasn't really my type, a hard-looking but untalented reporter from the local cat box liner, but the first second that the third-rate representative of the fourth estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, my sixth sense said seventh heaven was as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, so, nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam, I swept her into my longing arms, and, humming 'The Twelfth of Never,' I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth." -Wm. W. "Buddy" Ocheltree, Port Townsend, WA, 1993
As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual. -Dan McKay, Fargo, ND, 2005
