Sycamore Row by John Grisham

They found Seth Hubbard in the general area where he had promised to be, though not exactly in the condition expected.

This sentence raises questions, one of which is promptly answered in the next line:

He was at the end of a rope, six feet off the ground and twisting slightly in the wind. 

It's nice when a mystery story opens with a body. No set up, no sentimental descriptions of the area or the weather, no back story about what the dead man had had for dinner or how horrible his childhood was after Battlestar Galactica got cancelled. As well, what isn't written, speaks volumes: We can all hear the rope peacefully creaking. As well, I like that instead of being six feet under, this guy is six feet above.

The plot quickly thickens as clues and peculiar details emerge, bringing characters into sharper focus with each page, painlessly drawing the reader into the story and its world.

First thing said:

“Stay here now.” 

Verdict: Pass (3.5 stars)

Sincerely,
Theodore Moracht

Dust by Patricia Cornwell

The clangor of the phone violates the relentless roll of rain beating the roof like drumsticks.

I love this! I mean, come on, how does a phone violate the rain? I can just picture the rain sitting on the shrink's couch, in tears as he/she/it/whatever tells the whole sordid story. Or to be more precise: How does clangor violate roll? That's right, clangor is the subject of the verb violate and roll is the object of the verb violate. So the roll should be seeing the shrink for unspecified violations.

Plus, rain beating the roof like drumsticks is an unfinished simile. Drumsticks by themselves beat nothing, not unless they are in the hands of a drummer. So is the rain beating the roof, say Lars Ulrich style, or perhaps, Stevie Alder style, or like the little drummer boy? What's the rhythm? Or does this mean the rain is beating the roof as if the rain were using drumsticks? Or is the rain supposed to be like drumsticks falling on the roof? Does that mean it's raining drumsticks? And so I (quite unintentionally mind you) start thinking of chicken legs, and viola - it's raining chicken drumsticks. What fun!

 I sit straight up in bed, my heart leaping in my chest like a startled squirrel as I glance at the illuminated display to see who it is.

I can wrap my noggin around the image of a heart that leapt but of a heart leaping (present participle form of the verb at first suggests an action occurring over again - and like a squirrel to boot) requires some mental posturing. I've personally never seen a squirrel leaping when startled, which means jumping a long way. Cats I've seen though, but they're leaping up, rather than just leaping. To be fair, it would make sense to say, figuratively speaking mind you, my heart leapt out of my chest like a startled squirrel; however, a heart leaping in a chest like a startled squirrel merely sounds part demonic and part having the shakes from a chemical dependency withdrawal. So the impression my cluttered, wandering mind is conjuring up is that the heart is possessed by an evil junkie squirrel spirit freaking out in a rehab center.

Actually, present participle form of the verb can also mean that that verb is occurring at the same time as another verb in the past participle form, so this sentence isn't technically wrong, just lacking clarity. It's still entertaining, though for the wrong reasons.

Oh, my leaping heart - you leaping squirrel.

Random horrible sentence:

I almost can’t believe it.

Which almost means the person almost can believe it? Do I almost understand this sentence or should I almost read it again?

First thing said:

"What's up?"

I'd have given this a 1-star epic fail if it hadn't almost been so much fun to review. I'm definitely almost going to grab more books by this author.

Verdict: Fail

Sincerely,
Rudy Globird

Agent 6 by Tom Rob Smith

The safest way to write a diary was to imagine Stalin reading every word.

For people who aren't aware of the Stalinist regime this sentence might not be of much interest. For those who are aware of this demented history and it's leading demented historical figure, this statement will be obvious. On a story level, this sentence does a couple of things. It establishes setting and introduces conflict. Anyone interested in the period will be hooked. Nevertheless, a story problem begins to emerge by page two.

Next sentence:

Even exercising this degree of caution there was the risk of a slipped phrase, accidental ambiguity - a misunderstood sentence.

This reminds me of a story told by a Soviet official (perhaps Krushchev) after Stalin was dead and the thaw had begun. "If you looked directly at Stalin, he thought you were challenging him. If you looked away, he thought you were hiding something."

The beginning of this novel accurately captures the conundrum people living in that time and place were in: Praise might be mistaken for mockery, sincere adulation taken for parody.

First thing said (I think - as quotation marks are not used to identify dialogue, italics are.):

"The diary says nothing."

Verdict: Pass

Sincerely,
Theodore Moracht

Heartbroken by Lisa Unger

Birdie Burke stood on the edge of the rock and watched the first light of morning color the sky a dusty rose.

Another sunrise. As many books begin this way, there must be tons of people who think beginning with the sun rising or setting hooks and is engaging. I'm not one of them. It's a super bad cliche. It's become more cliche than starting with: It was a dark and stormy night... as I have yet to come across that one.

What follows is a physical description of a seventy-five-year-old woman, or more correctly, thank god, what she used to look like. By page three we have a scene developing: someone is trespassing.

Chapter one:

The Blue Hen was bustling, and Emily had screwed up in at least three different ways since her shift began.

But nothing life threatening or too interesting. Basically, this line is about someone having a not so hot day. It annoys me. I hate hearing about other people's petty problems. What about me?

First thing said:

"Who's there?"

Verdict: Fail

Sincerely,
Rudy Globird

The Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey

Prologue: The Aftermath

When a new bridge between two sovereign states of the United States has been completed, it is time for speech.

There is not much being offered here. This sentence sounds like it's from a news article or is a line from an encyclopedia entry, and it drags on into page two and bores me.

Chapter one:

Dr. Sarvis with his bald mottled dome and savage visage, grim and noble as Sibelius, was out night-riding on a routine neighborhood beautification project, burning billboards along the highway-U.S. 66 later to be devoured by the superstate's interstate autobahn.

Not bad. We have a character and a situation, which suggests some conflict. Even if it didn't, it is unusual enough to hook most people's attention.

The rest of the first paragraph:

His procedure was simple, surgically deft. With a five-gallon can of gasoline he sloshed about the legs and support members of the selected target, then applied a match. Everyone should have a hobby.

Everyone should have a hobby. A sarcastic, butt-kicking personality encourages most people to read on.

First thing said:

"Next?"

The prologue gets in the way. If it wasn't there, this would score higher.

Verdict: Cool (I want more)

Sincerely,
Theodore Moracht

A Maze of Death by Philip K. Dick

His job, as always, bored him. 

And this sentence bores me. Sure, there's conflict: someone being bored. But it's not the kind of thing one wants to read about. It's easy to resolve, though, just have something happen in the book.

With the rest of the paragraph comes the hook. At least the author wastes no time.

So he had during the previous week gone to the ship’s transmitter and attached conduits to the permanent electrodes extending from his pineal gland. The conduits had carried his prayer to the transmitter, and from there the prayer had gone into the nearest relay network; his prayer, during these days, had bounced throughout the galaxy, winding up—he hoped—at one of the godworlds.

First thing said:

“Mr. Tallchief ...You’re being transferred.”

So the electronic prayer worked.

Verdict: Pass

Sincerely,
Theodore Moracht

The October List by Jeffery Deaver

She stood at the window of the Manhattan apartment, peering through a slit in the drapes.

This novel begins at the end. It is subtitled: A Novel in Reverse. So this sentence (it's still the opening line of the novel, regardless of how the author wants to label it, as it's the first thing the reader sees), is technically the end or last sentence.

Anyway, it doesn't grab any attention. Just some random lady looking through the window. By the end of the first page there is the suggestion of a sniper out and about. But without context, we're lost without a care in this narrative world. One good thing is that with this title I was expecting early on a paragraph or two describing the season; however, the author resisted the temptation to describe an October day for those not in the know.

Chapter 1, which is at the end of the book begins:

I'm going to tell you what I need.

The next sentence makes the first redundant.

I need someone dead.

It's better than the opening line in chapter 36, or is the last line of the book supposed to be the first?

"Let's get to work."

Maybe this is supposed to be the true first line? I'm just mulling over my options here, though none of them hook me.

First thing (or last thing) said:

"Do you see anyone?"

I did consider giving this a pass (for effort), but...

Verdict: Fail

Sincerely,
Rudy Globird