Don't let the temperatures fool you; fall has arrived in the Northern Hemisphere and it's time to start thinking about indoor pursuits and long evenings devoted to reading. The quality of books coming out this season is astounding, meaning 2011 is going to end as strongly as it began.
As I've mentioned, one way I choose my next book is by reading the opening lines to see what grabs me. Here's what I read yesterday.
Let's Take the Long Way Home
Random House Trade, 2011
It's an old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything and then she died and so we shared that, too.Beth Kephart
You Are My Only
Egmont USA / Laura Geringer Books, 2011
Young Adult - Fiction
My house is a storybook house. A huff-and-a-puff-and-they'll-blow-it-down house. The roof is soft; it's tumbled. There are bushes growing tall past the sills. A single sprouted tree leans in from high above the cracked slate path, torpedoing acorns to the ground.Anne Enright
The Forgotten Waltz
W. W. Norton, 2011
If it hadn't been for the child then none of this might have happened, but the fact that a child was involved made everything that much harder to forgive. Not that there is anything to forgive, of course, but the fact that a child was mixed up in it all made us feel that there was no going back; that it mattered. The fact that a child was affected meant we had to face ourselves properly, we had to follow through.Brian O'Reilly
Simon & Schuster / Gallery, 2011
"Perfect," whispered Angelina.Greg Olear
Standing alone in the moonlit warmth of her kitchen, she stroked them each softly in turn and applied the slightest, knowing pressure to each. They were cool to the touch now, all risen to exactly the same height, the same shape and consistency, laid side by side by side on the well-worn wooden table. The dusky scent of dark chocolate lingered in the air and on her fingers.
HarperCollins / William Morrow, 2011
Fatherhood is fear. Fatherhood is disappointment. Fatherhood is anger and envy and lust. And the surest guarantee of fatherly success is a Spock-like mastery of those base emotions. Mister Spock, not Doctor.
Ten Thousand Saints
HarperCollins / Ecco, 2011
"Is it dreamed?" Jude asked Teddy. "Or dreamt?"From the opening lines, which of these would you read first? I haven't yet decided.
Beneath the stadium seats of the football field, on the last morning of 1987 and the last morning of Teddy's life, the two boys lay side by side, a pair of snow angels bundled in thrift-store parkas. If you were to spy them from above, between the slats of the bleachers--or smoking behind the school gym, or sliding their skateboards down the stone wall by the lake--you might confuse one for the other. But Teddy was the dark-haired one, Jude the redhead.