Give us a taste of your current read...share the opening paragraph here.

I'm going to add the first couple paragraphs as they are so short.

Mistress of the Art of Death by Ariana Franklin

Here they come. From down the road we can hear harnesses jingling and see dust rising into the warm spring sky.

Pilgrims returning after Easter in Canterbury. Tokens of the mitered, martyred Saint Thomas are pinned to cloaks and hats - the Canterbury monks must be raking it in.

They're a pleasant interruption in the traffic of carts whose drivers and oxen are surly with fatigue from plowing and sowing. These people are well fed, noisy, exultant with the grace their journey has gained them.

But one of them, as exuberant as the rest, is a murderer of children. God's grace will not extend to a child-killer.

I, Coriander by Sally Gardner

It is night, and our old house by the river is finally quiet. The baby has stopped its crying and been soothed back to sleep. Only the gentle lapping of the River Thames can be heard outside my window. London is wrapped a deep sleep, waiting for the watchman to call in the new day.

This is a back-and-forth book and it's hard to tell where the first paragraph ends. Anyway.

The Map of Love A Novel by Ahdaf Soueif

"--and there, on the table under her bedroom window, lies the voice that has set her dreaming again. Fragments of a life lived a long, long time ago. Across a hundred years the woman's voice speaks to her--so clearly that she cannot believe it is not possible to pick up her pen and answer.

The child sleeps. Nur al-Hayah: light of my life.

Anna must have put aside her pen, Amal thinks, and looked down at the child pressed into her side: the face flushed with sleep, the mouth slightly open, a damp tendril of black hair clinging to the brow.

I have tried as well as I could, to tell her. But she cannot--or will not--understand, and give up hope. She waits for him constantly.

Amal reads and reads deep into the night. She reads and lets Anna's words flow into her, probing gently at dreams and hopes and sorrows she had sorted out, labelled and put away."

Wow... That's very beautiful. I will have to look into that one.

I finished it and thought it was just okay. Don't let me discourage you from reading it if you're interested though.

The Princes of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd Skipping the prologue...

Lughnasa. High summer. It would be harvest season soon. Deirdre stood by the rail and surveyed the scene. It should have been a cheerful day, but it brought only anguish to her. For the father she loved and the one-eyed man were going to sell her. And there was nothing she could do.

Edward VI The Lost King of England by Chris Skidmore (non-fiction)

I know this isn't everyones' thing but for those you looking for a good Tudor non-fiction, I'm liking this one a lot.

Henry VIII never underestimated the importance of a male heir. It was a lesson he had learnt at an early age. The turn of Fortune's wheel could be cruel, as it had been when he was just ten years old. Then the sudden death of his elder brother Arthur in April 1502 propelled him into the limelight as heir to the throne; overnight, Henry's life changed drastically. He was never meant to be king, not had he been prepared for such a task. For the sensitive and mild-mannered young child, a career in the Church had possibly beckoned; now, as Prince of Wales and sole male heir of the Tudor dynasty, he was kept so closely guarded that a Spanish envoy remarked how he might have been a girl, locked away in his chambr and only allowed to speak when answering his father.

Interesting, then he married his brothers fiancee lol

That sounds like a really good book...*added to Felina's TBR*

Felina wrote: "That sounds like a really good book...*added to Felina's TBR*"

Aw, I'm so glad! It's really good. We're doing it as a groupread this month in Tudor History Lovers :)

Abundance A Novel of Marie Antoinette by Sena Jeter Naslund

Like everyone, I am born naked.

I do not refer to my actual birth, mercifully hidden in the silk folds of memory, but to my birth as a citizen of France--citoyenne, they would say. Having shed all my clothing, I stand in a room on an island in the middle of the Rhine River--naked. My bare feet occupy for this moment a spot considered to be neutral between beloved Austria and France. The sky blue silk of my discarded skirt wreathes my ankles, and I fancy I am standing barefooted in a puddle of pretty water.

sounds good!

That is really beautiful writing. I love the pretty water comment.

It was really, really good! I recommend it!

Ooh... I'll be adding that one.

hehehe I gave it away not too long ago. *runs away*

!!!!! *chases*

You guys are hilarious.

By "hilarious" you mean "four", right? :P LOL

LOL...

Thats correct. I always mix those two up.

I'm taking this from the first chapter instead of the prologue. I've stopped reading prologues. I figure if they were vital they'd be called Chapter 1.

From The Given Day by Dennis Lehane

On a wet summer night, Danny Coughlin, a Boston police officer, fought a four-round bout against another cop, Johnny Green, at Mechanics Hall just outside Copley Square. Coughlin-Green was the final fight on a fifteen-bout, all-police card that included flyweights, welterweights, cruiserweights, and heavyweights. Danny Coughlin, at six two, 220, was a heavyweight. A suspect left hook and foot speed that was a few steps shy of blazing kept him from fighting professionally, but his butcher-knife left jab combined with the airmail-your-jaw-to-Georgia explosion of his right cross dwarfed the abilities of just about any other semipro on the East Coast.

Dorie wrote: "I've stopped reading prologues. I figure if they were vital they'd be called Chapter 1."

Hee hee! I never thought about it, but you're right!

I'm reading Bleeding Heart Square by Andrew Taylor at the moment. It starts a bit strangely because every chapter begins with a letter that's introduced by this weird anonymous narrator and I don't know who he is yet...

Sometimes you frighten yourself. So what is it, exactly? A punishment? A distraction? A relief? You're not sure. You tell yourself it happened more than four years ago, that it doesn't matter any more and nothing you can do can change a thing. But you don't listen, do you? All you do is go back to that nasty little green book.

JG wrote: "Dorie wrote: "I've stopped reading prologues. I figure if they were vital they'd be called Chapter 1."

Hee hee! I never thought about it, but you're right!

"
Do you not read epilogues then?

It's just structure to me and there's no point missing it out - over what sort of protest? If an author writes it, and it's in the book I'll read it. I don't much care if it's called chapter one or if it isn't called anything at all.

I read prologues, but NOT introductions.

I do not read intros of classics. They ruin the story. Why call them intros? I always leave intros to last.

Fiona, I always read the epilogue. Usually it is a device used correctly by most authors. And it rarely if ever ruins the rest of the book for me, as I've found prologues sometimes do.

I was never a big fan of the use of prologues to begin with, but have had a couple of problems the last couple of years that caused me to stop reading them. (Although sometimes I'll go back and read them after I finish the story.) A few crime books I read used the prologue to write truly gruesome accounts of the murder. A couple other books actually wrote spoilers for the way the book ended, and used the rest of the book to show the how and why of the result. I really hated that. And I often find I miss nothing at all by skipping the prologue altogether, or at least putting it off until I've finished the book.

Becky wrote: "I read prologues, but NOT introductions. "

Me too. They should just call those "SPOILERS."

From The Commoner by John Burnham Schwartz.

In the years before the war, my family lived in Shibuya Ward, in a large house with a walled garden. The sake brewing company that my father, Tsuneyasu Endo, had inherited from his father grew and prospered under his guidance, making him a respected figure in the business community. My mother’s family was older and more distinguished than my father’s, a fact that she neither promoted nor attempted to hide. As for me, born in 1934, the Year of the Dog, I was an only child and wore the proper skirts that my mother laid out for me each morning. I was fond of tennis, history, and calligraphy. There was, I suppose, nothing remarkable about me as a child, save for my father’s love, for it was to me that he always told his favorite stories.

This is from Innocent Traitor A Novel of Lady Jane Grey by Alison Weir.

My travail begins as I am enjoying a walk in the garden. There is a sudden flood of liquid from my womb, and then, as my maid runs for cloths and assistance, a dull pain that shifts from the small of my back to the pit of my stomach. Soon, they are all clustering around me, the midwives and the women, helping me through the great doorway of the manor house and up the oaken stairs, stripping me of my fine clothing and replacing it with a voluminous birthing smock of bleached linen, finely embroidered at the neck and wrists. Now I am made to lie upon my bed, and they are pressing a goblet of sweet wine to my lips. I don't really want it, but I take a few sips to please them. My two chief ladies sit beside me, my gossips, whose job it is to while away the tedious hours of labor with distracting chatter. their task is to keep me cheerful and to offer encouragement when the pains grow stronger.

This is from Restoration by Rose Tremain

I am, I discover, a very untidy man.

Look at me. Without my periwig, I am an affront to neatness. My hair (what is left of it) is the colour of sand and wiry as hogs' bristles; my ears are of uneven size; my forehead is splattered with freckles; my nose, which of course my wig can't conceal, however low I wear it, is unceremoniously flat, as if I had been hit at birth.

I haven't read it yet but I love tremain's writing style. Can't wait!

Lyn wrote: "This is from Innocent Traitor A Novel of Lady Jane Grey by Alison Weir.

My travail begins as I am enjoying a walk in the garden. There is a sudden flood of liquid fr..."

Can't wait to read this one!

Jennifer - It was SOOO GOOD. I can't wait to discuss with everyone. Sorry I read ahead, but my copy was due back to the library.

Glad you liked it. It's fine that you read ahead. I know you'll still be active in our discussion next month :D

From An Echo in the Bone by Diana Gabaldon

"The pirate's head had disappeared. William heard the speculations from a group of idlers on the quay nearby, wondering whether it would be seen again."

JG wrote: "Abundance A Novel of Marie Antoinette by Sena Jeter Naslund

Like everyone, I am born naked.

I do not refer to my actual birth, mercifully hidden in the silk folds of ..."

JG, I love the beginnings of Naslund's novels. She is a fabulous writer. I met her last week at an author talk and found her to be such a gracious, wonderful lady. I've read Abundance A Novel of Marie Antoinette and Ahab's Wife Or, The Star-gazer A Novel, and they are both favorites of mine. I am planning on reading Four Spirits A Novel very soon.

From The Day the Falls Stood Still by Cathy Marie Buchanan

The stone walls of Loretto Academy are so thick I can sit curled up on a windowsill, arms around the knees tucked beneath my chin. It stands on a bluff not far from the Horseshoe Falls, and because I have been a student long enough to rank a room on the river side, I have only to open a pair of shutters to take in my own private view of the Niagara. Beyond the hedge and gate marking the perimeter of the academy, and the steep descent leading to the wooded shore, I can see the upper river and the falls. Endless water plummets from the brink to the rocks below, like the careless who slip, like the stunters who fail, like the suicidal who leap. I nudge my attention downriver, to clouds of rising mist.

From Honolulu by Alan Brennert

When I was a young child growing up in Korea, it was said that the image of the fading moon at daybreak, reflected in a pond, a stream, or even a well, resembled the speckled shell of a dragon's egg. A dragon embodied the yang, the masculine principle of life, and it was thought that if a couple expecting a child prayed to the dragon's egg, their offspring would be male.

From The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett


The small boys came early to the hanging.

It was still dark when the first three or four of them sidled out of the hovels, quiet as cats in their felt boots. A thin layer of fresh snow covered the little town like a new coat of paint, and theirs were the first footprints to blemish its perfect surface. They picked their way through the huddled wooden huts and along the streets of frozen mud to the silent marketplace, where the gallows stood waiting.

Heather wrote: "From The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett


The small boys came early to the hanging.

It was still dark when the first three or four of them sidled out of the hovels, ..."


OK, Heather, I've been playing around with when to read this book. After reading the opening, I now know I have to read it. I'm not sure if I can fit it in this year, but it will be on my short list when the new year rolls around for sure.

Oh yes Kathy, it is one of my favorite books of all time.

Kathy, I'm reading Pillars right now and it's definitely worth it!

Too bad you couldn't pick it up right now, Kathy, seeing as it's the group read this month. But I totally understand the call of other books and how that goes! LOL As long as you get around to it eventually... ;)

From

The Butcher of Smithfield Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London
London, Late October 1663

A combination of chiming bells and hammering rain woke Thomas Chaloner that grey Sunday morning. At first, he did not know where he was, and he sat up with a jolt, automatically reaching for the dagger at his side. The realisation that he did not need it, that he was safe in his rooms at Fetter Lane, came just after the shock of discovering that his weapon was not where it had been these last four months, and it took a few moments to bring his instictive alarm under control. He lay back on his bedk staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, and forced himself to relax. He was home, not working in enemy terriotory on the Spanish-Portugese border, and the bells were calling the faithful to their weekly devotoins, not waning of an imminent attack.



Just starting this one tonight, been on my TBR pile for a while now. Should be good

Sounds good so far Carol.

From The Queen's Devotion The Story of Queen Mary II by Jean Plaidy

There have been two people in my life whom I have loved beyond all others, and it has always weighed heavily upon me that I was called upon to decide between them and, in choosing one, I betrayed the other. I did what my heart, my faith, my sense of duty dictated and ever since I have suffered from the torment of knowing of the pain I inflicted and from which I myself will suffer to the end of my days.

Prayers for Sale by Sandra Dallas

The old woman peered past the red geraniums in her deep front window at the figure lingering in the moon-white snow at the gate. In the gloom of the late winter afternoon, Hennie Comfort did not recognize the woman, who stood like a curious bird, her head cocked to one side as she looked at the fence, then the front door, and back at the fence again. Hennie watched, thinking it odd that anyone would wait there, mute as the snow itself. Why would a body stand in the cold when she could come inside by the stove?

I'm excited you're reading that, JG! I've been curious about it and will be anxious to hear your thoughts when you finish. I like the sound of it so far!