{"id":6001,"date":"2010-04-15T08:00:22","date_gmt":"2010-04-15T07:00:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/poesiamas.net\/blog\/?p=6001"},"modified":"2015-03-14T01:07:51","modified_gmt":"2015-03-14T01:07:51","slug":"100-mejores-inicios-de-novelas-universales","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/2010\/04\/15\/100-mejores-inicios-de-novelas-universales\/","title":{"rendered":"100 mejores inicios de novelas universales"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>
\nHe encontrado esta lista hecha por los editores de American Bool Review<\/a><\/em>, en la que dan su lista de los cien mejores inicios de novelas<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

Aunque est\u00e1n en ingl\u00e9s, se entienden bastante bien y llama poderosamente la atenci\u00f3n que la primera de todas sea: “Llamadme Ismael”, de Moby Dick, un pedazo de novela de la que extirpar\u00eda el tratado sobre cet\u00e1ceos, pero se le perdona a Melville porque luego es toda una maravilla, de un poder\u00edo tot\u00e9mico y sobrecogedor.\u00a0 La cuarta, Cien a\u00f1os de soledad<\/em>, del maestro Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez. Me encanta la de Flannery O’Connor.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

100 Best First Lines of Novels<\/h1>\n

As chosen by the editors of American Book Review<\/em><\/h4>\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
<\/th>\nQuote<\/th>\nAuthor<\/th>\nTitle<\/th>\nYear<\/th>\n<\/tr>\n
1.<\/td>\nCall me Ishmael.<\/td>\nHerman Melville<\/td>\nMoby-Dick<\/em><\/td>\n1851<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
2.<\/td>\nIt is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.<\/td>\nJane Austen<\/td>\nPride and Prejudice<\/em><\/td>\n1813<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
3.<\/td>\nA screaming comes across the sky.<\/td>\nThomas Pynchon<\/td>\nGravity’s Rainbow<\/em><\/td>\n1973<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
4.<\/td>\nMany years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buend\u00eda was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.<\/td>\nGabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez (trans. Gregory Rabassa)<\/td>\nOne Hundred Years of Solitude<\/em><\/td>\n1967<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
5.<\/td>\nLolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.<\/td>\nVladimir Nabokov<\/td>\nLolita<\/em><\/td>\n1955<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
6.<\/td>\nHappy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.<\/td>\nLeo Tolstoy (trans. Constance Garnett)<\/td>\nAnna Karenina<\/em><\/td>\n1877<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
7.<\/td>\nriverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.<\/td>\nJames Joyce<\/td>\nFinnegans Wake<\/em><\/td>\n1939<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
8.<\/td>\nIt was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.<\/td>\nGeorge Orwell<\/td>\n1984<\/em><\/td>\n1949<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
9.<\/td>\nIt was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.<\/td>\nCharles Dickens<\/td>\nA Tale of Two Cities<\/em><\/td>\n1859<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
10.<\/td>\nI am an invisible man.<\/td>\nRalph Ellison<\/td>\nInvisible Man<\/em><\/td>\n1952<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
11.<\/td>\nThe Miss Lonelyhearts of the New York Post-Dispatch (Are you in trouble?\u2014Do-you-need-advice?\u2014Write-to-Miss-Lonelyhearts-and-she-will-help-you) sat at his desk and stared at a piece of white cardboard.<\/td>\nNathanael West<\/td>\nMiss Lonelyhearts<\/em><\/td>\n1933<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
12.<\/td>\nYou don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer<\/em>; but that ain’t no matter.<\/td>\nMark Twain<\/td>\nAdventures of Huckleberry Finn<\/em><\/td>\n1885<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
13.<\/td>\nSomeone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested.<\/td>\nFranz Kafka (trans. Breon Mitchell)<\/td>\nThe Trial<\/em><\/td>\n1925<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
14.<\/td>\nYou are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler<\/em>.<\/td>\nItalo Calvino (trans. William Weaver)<\/td>\nIf on a winter’s night a traveler<\/em><\/td>\n1979<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
15.<\/td>\nThe sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.<\/td>\nSamuel Beckett<\/td>\nMurphy<\/em><\/td>\n1938<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
16.<\/td>\nIf you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.<\/td>\nJ. D. Salinger<\/td>\nThe Catcher in the Rye<\/em><\/td>\n1951<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
17.<\/td>\nOnce upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo.<\/td>\nJames Joyce<\/td>\nA Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man<\/em><\/td>\n1916<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
18.<\/td>\nThis is the saddest story I have ever heard.<\/td>\nFord Madox Ford<\/td>\nThe Good Soldier<\/em><\/td>\n1915<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
19.<\/td>\nI wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly considered how much depended upon what they were then doing;\u2014that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind;\u2014and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost:\u2014Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly,\u2014I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that, in which the reader is likely to see me.<\/td>\nLaurence Sterne<\/td>\nTristram Shandy<\/em><\/td>\n1759\u20131767<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
20.<\/td>\nWhether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.<\/td>\nCharles Dickens<\/td>\nDavid Copperfield<\/em><\/td>\n1850<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
21.<\/td>\nStately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.<\/td>\nJames Joyce<\/td>\nUlysses<\/em><\/td>\n1922<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
22.<\/td>\nIt was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.<\/td>\nEdward George Bulwer-Lytton<\/td>\nPaul Clifford<\/em><\/td>\n1830<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
23.<\/td>\nOne summer afternoon Mrs. Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary.<\/td>\nThomas Pynchon<\/td>\nThe Crying of Lot 49<\/em><\/td>\n1966<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
24.<\/td>\nIt was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not.<\/td>\nPaul Auster<\/td>\nCity of Glass<\/em><\/td>\n1985<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
25.<\/td>\nThrough the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.<\/td>\nWilliam Faulkner<\/td>\nThe Sound and the Fury<\/em><\/td>\n1929<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
26.<\/td>\n124 was spiteful.<\/td>\nToni Morrison<\/td>\nBeloved<\/em><\/td>\n1987<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
27.<\/td>\nSomewhere in la Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.<\/td>\nMiguel de Cervantes (trans. Edith Grossman)<\/td>\nDon Quixote<\/em><\/td>\n1605<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
28.<\/td>\nMother died today.<\/td>\nAlbert Camus (trans. Stuart Gilbert)<\/td>\nThe Stranger<\/em><\/td>\n1942<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
29.<\/td>\nEvery summer Lin Kong returned to Goose Village to divorce his wife, Shuyu.<\/td>\nHa Jin<\/td>\nWaiting<\/em><\/td>\n1999<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
30.<\/td>\nThe sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.<\/td>\nWilliam Gibson<\/td>\nNeuromancer<\/em><\/td>\n1984<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
31.<\/td>\nI am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.<\/td>\nFyodor Dostoyevsky (trans. Michael R. Katz)<\/td>\nNotes from Underground<\/em><\/td>\n1864<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
32.<\/td>\nWhere now? Who now? When now?<\/td>\nSamuel Beckett (trans. Patrick Bowles)<\/td>\nThe Unnamable<\/em><\/td>\n1953<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
33.<\/td>\nOnce an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. \u201cStop!\u201d cried the groaning old man at last, \u201cStop! I did not drag my father beyond this tree.\u201d<\/td>\nGertrude Stein<\/td>\nThe Making of Americans<\/em><\/td>\n1925<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
34.<\/td>\nIn a sense, I am Jacob Horner.<\/td>\nJohn Barth<\/td>\nThe End of the Road<\/em><\/td>\n1958<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
35.<\/td>\nIt was like so, but wasn’t.<\/td>\nRichard Powers<\/td>\nGalatea 2.2<\/em><\/td>\n1995<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
36.<\/td>\n\u2014Money . . . in a voice that rustled.<\/td>\nWilliam Gaddis<\/td>\nJ R<\/em><\/td>\n1975<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
37.<\/td>\nMrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.<\/td>\nVirginia Woolf<\/td>\nMrs. Dalloway<\/em><\/td>\n1925<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
38.<\/td>\nAll this happened, more or less.<\/td>\nKurt Vonnegut<\/td>\nSlaughterhouse-Five<\/em><\/td>\n1969<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
39.<\/td>\nThey shoot the white girl first.<\/td>\nToni Morrison<\/td>\nParadise<\/em><\/td>\n1998<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
40.<\/td>\nFor a long time, I went to bed early.<\/td>\nMarcel Proust (trans. Lydia Davis)<\/td>\nSwann’s Way<\/em><\/td>\n1913<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
41.<\/td>\nThe moment one learns English, complications set in.<\/td>\nFelipe Alfau<\/td>\nChromos<\/em><\/td>\n1990<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
42.<\/td>\nDr. Weiss, at forty, knew that her life had been ruined by literature.<\/td>\nAnita Brookner<\/td>\nThe Debut<\/em><\/td>\n1981<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
43.<\/td>\nI was the shadow of the waxwing slain \/ By the false azure in the windowpane;<\/td>\nVladimir Nabokov<\/td>\nPale Fire<\/em><\/td>\n1962<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
44.<\/td>\nShips at a distance have every man’s wish on board.<\/td>\nZora Neale Hurston<\/td>\nTheir Eyes Were Watching God<\/em><\/td>\n1937<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
45.<\/td>\nI had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.<\/td>\nEdith Wharton<\/td>\nEthan Frome<\/em><\/td>\n1911<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
46.<\/td>\nAges ago, Alex, Allen and Alva arrived at Antibes, and Alva allowing all, allowing anyone, against Alex’s admonition, against Allen’s angry assertion: another African amusement . . . anyhow, as all argued, an awesome African army assembled and arduously advanced against an African anthill, assiduously annihilating ant after ant, and afterward, Alex astonishingly accuses Albert as also accepting Africa’s antipodal ant annexation.<\/td>\nWalter Abish<\/td>\nAlphabetical Africa<\/em><\/td>\n1974<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
47.<\/td>\nThere was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.<\/td>\nC. S. Lewis<\/td>\nThe Voyage of the Dawn Treader<\/em><\/td>\n1952<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
48.<\/td>\nHe was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.<\/td>\nErnest Hemingway<\/td>\nThe Old Man and the Sea<\/em><\/td>\n1952<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
49.<\/td>\nIt was the day my grandmother exploded.<\/td>\nIain M. Banks<\/td>\nThe Crow Road<\/em><\/td>\n1992<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
50.<\/td>\nI was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.<\/td>\nJeffrey Eugenides<\/td>\nMiddlesex<\/em><\/td>\n2002<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
51.<\/td>\nElmer Gantry was drunk.<\/td>\nSinclair Lewis<\/td>\nElmer Gantry<\/em><\/td>\n1927<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
52.<\/td>\nWe started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall.<\/td>\nLouise Erdrich<\/td>\nTracks<\/em><\/td>\n1988<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
53.<\/td>\nIt was a pleasure to burn.<\/td>\nRay Bradbury<\/td>\nFahrenheit 451<\/em><\/td>\n1953<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
54.<\/td>\nA story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead.<\/td>\nGraham Greene<\/td>\nThe End of the Affair<\/em><\/td>\n1951<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
55.<\/td>\nHaving placed in my mouth sufficient bread for three minutes’ chewing, I withdrew my powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a vacant and preoccupied expression.<\/td>\nFlann O’Brien<\/td>\nAt Swim-Two-Birds<\/em><\/td>\n1939<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
56.<\/td>\nI was born in the Year 1632, in the City of York, of a good Family, tho’ not of that Country, my Father being a Foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull<\/em>; He got a good Estate by Merchandise, and leaving off his Trade, lived afterward at York<\/em>, from whence he had married my Mother, whose Relations were named Robinson, a very good Family in that Country, and from whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer; but by the usual Corruption of Words in England, we are now called, nay we call our selves, and write our Name Crusoe, and so my Companions always call’d me.<\/td>\nDaniel Defoe<\/td>\nRobinson Crusoe<\/em><\/td>\n1719<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
57.<\/td>\nIn the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street.<\/td>\nDavid Markson<\/td>\nWittgenstein’s Mistress<\/em><\/td>\n1988<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
58.<\/td>\nMiss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.<\/td>\nGeorge Eliot<\/td>\nMiddlemarch<\/em><\/td>\n1872<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
59.<\/td>\nIt was love at first sight.<\/td>\nJoseph Heller<\/td>\nCatch-22<\/em><\/td>\n1961<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
60.<\/td>\nWhat if this young woman, who writes such bad poems, in competition with her husband, whose poems are equally bad, should stretch her remarkably long and well-made legs out before you, so that her skirt slips up to the tops of her stockings?<\/td>\nGilbert Sorrentino<\/td>\nImaginative Qualities of Actual Things<\/em><\/td>\n1971<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
61.<\/td>\nI have never begun a novel with more misgiving.<\/td>\nW. Somerset Maugham<\/td>\nThe Razor’s Edge<\/em><\/td>\n1944<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
62.<\/td>\nOnce upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person.<\/td>\nAnne Tyler<\/td>\nBack When We Were Grownups<\/em><\/td>\n2001<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
63.<\/td>\nThe human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at children’s games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up.<\/td>\nG. K. Chesterton<\/td>\nThe Napoleon of Notting Hill<\/em><\/td>\n1904<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
64.<\/td>\nIn my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.<\/td>\nF. Scott Fitzgerald<\/td>\nThe Great Gatsby<\/em><\/td>\n1925<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
65.<\/td>\nYou better not never tell nobody but God.<\/td>\nAlice Walker<\/td>\nThe Color Purple<\/em><\/td>\n1982<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
66.<\/td>\n\u201cTo be born again,\u201d sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, \u201cfirst you have to die.\u201d<\/td>\nSalman Rushdie<\/td>\nThe Satanic Verses<\/em><\/td>\n1988<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
67.<\/td>\nIt was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.<\/td>\nSylvia Plath<\/td>\nThe Bell Jar<\/em><\/td>\n1963<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
68.<\/td>\nMost really pretty girls have pretty ugly feet, and so does Mindy Metalman, Lenore notices, all of a sudden.<\/td>\nDavid Foster Wallace<\/td>\nThe Broom of the System<\/em><\/td>\n1987<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
69.<\/td>\nIf I am out of my mind, it’s all right with me, thought Moses Herzog.<\/td>\nSaul Bellow<\/td>\nHerzog<\/em><\/td>\n1964<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
70.<\/td>\nFrancis Marion Tarwater’s uncle had been dead for only half a day when the boy got too drunk to finish digging his grave and a Negro named Buford Munson, who had come to get a jug filled, had to finish it and drag the body from the breakfast table where it was still sitting and bury it in a decent and Christian way, with the sign of its Saviour at the head of the grave and enough dirt on top to keep the dogs from digging it up.<\/td>\nFlannery O’Connor<\/td>\nThe Violent Bear it Away<\/em><\/td>\n1960<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
71.<\/td>\nGranted: I am an inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his sight; there’s a peephole in the door, and my keeper’s eye is the shade of brown that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me.<\/td>\nG\u0178nter Grass (trans. Ralph Manheim)<\/td>\nThe Tin Drum<\/em><\/td>\n1959<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
72.<\/td>\nWhen Dick Gibson was a little boy he was not Dick Gibson.<\/td>\nStanley Elkin<\/td>\nThe Dick Gibson Show<\/em><\/td>\n1971<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
73.<\/td>\nHiram Clegg, together with his wife Emma and four friends of the faith from Randolph Junction, were summoned by the Spirit and Mrs. Clara Collins, widow of the beloved Nazarene preacher Ely Collins, to West Condon on the weekend of the eighteenth and nineteenth of April, there to await the End of the World.<\/td>\nRobert Coover<\/td>\nThe Origin of the Brunists<\/em><\/td>\n1966<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
74.<\/td>\nShe waited, Kate Croy, for her father to come in, but he kept her unconscionably, and there were moments at which she showed herself, in the glass over the mantel, a face positively pale with the irritation that had brought her to the point of going away without sight of him.<\/td>\nHenry James<\/td>\nThe Wings of the Dove<\/em><\/td>\n1902<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
75.<\/td>\nIn the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.<\/td>\nErnest Hemingway<\/td>\nA Farewell to Arms<\/em><\/td>\n1929<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
76.<\/td>\n\u201cTake my camel, dear,\u201d said my Aunt Dot, as she climbed down from this animal on her return from High Mass.<\/td>\nRose Macaulay<\/td>\nThe Towers of Trebizon<\/em><\/td>\n1956<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
77.<\/td>\nHe was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull.<\/td>\nJoseph Conrad<\/td>\nLord Jim<\/em><\/td>\n1900<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
78.<\/td>\nThe past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.<\/td>\nL. P. Hartley<\/td>\nThe Go-Between<\/em><\/td>\n1953<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
79.<\/td>\nOn my naming day when I come 12 I gone front spear and kilt a wyld boar he parbly ben the las wyld pig on the Bundel Downs any how there hadnt ben none for a long time befor him nor I aint looking to see none agen.<\/td>\nRussell Hoban<\/td>\nRiddley Walker<\/em><\/td>\n1980<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
80.<\/td>\nJustice?\u2014You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.<\/td>\nWilliam Gaddis<\/td>\nA Frolic of His Own<\/em><\/td>\n1994<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
81.<\/td>\nVaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash.<\/td>\nJ. G. Ballard<\/td>\nCrash<\/em><\/td>\n1973<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
82.<\/td>\nI write this sitting in the kitchen sink.<\/td>\nDodie Smith<\/td>\nI Capture the Castle<\/em><\/td>\n1948<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
83.<\/td>\n\u201cWhen your mama was the geek, my dreamlets,\u201d Papa would say, \u201cshe made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing.\u201d<\/td>\nKatherine Dunn<\/td>\nGeek Love<\/em><\/td>\n1983<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
84.<\/td>\nIn the last years of the Seventeenth Century there was to be found among the fops and fools of the London coffee-houses one rangy, gangling flitch called Ebenezer Cooke, more ambitious than talented, and yet more talented than prudent, who, like his friends-in-folly, all of whom were supposed to be educating at Oxford or Cambridge, had found the sound of Mother English more fun to game with than her sense to labor over, and so rather than applying himself to the pains of scholarship, had learned the knack of versifying, and ground out quires of couplets after the fashion of the day, afroth with Joves and Jupiters, aclang with jarring rhymes, and string-taut with similes stretched to the snapping-point.<\/td>\nJohn Barth<\/td>\nThe Sot-Weed Factor<\/em><\/td>\n1960<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
85.<\/td>\nWhen I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.<\/td>\nJames Crumley<\/td>\nThe Last Good Kiss<\/em><\/td>\n1978<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
86.<\/td>\nIt was just noon that Sunday morning when the sheriff reached the jail with Lucas Beauchamp though the whole town (the whole county too for that matter) had known since the night before that Lucas had killed a white man.<\/td>\nWilliam Faulkner<\/td>\nIntruder in the Dust<\/em><\/td>\n1948<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
87.<\/td>\nI, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as \u201cClaudius the Idiot,\u201d or \u201cThat Claudius,\u201d or \u201cClaudius the Stammerer,\u201d or \u201cClau-Clau-Claudius\u201d or at best as \u201cPoor Uncle Claudius,\u201d am now about to write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the \u201cgolden predicament\u201d from which I have never since become disentangled.<\/td>\nRobert Graves<\/td>\nI, Claudius<\/em><\/td>\n1934<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
88.<\/td>\nOf all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I’ve come to learn, is women.<\/td>\nCharles Johnson<\/td>\nMiddle Passage<\/em><\/td>\n1990<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
89.<\/td>\nI am an American, Chicago born\u2014Chicago, that somber city\u2014and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent.<\/td>\nSaul Bellow<\/td>\nThe Adventures of Augie March<\/em><\/td>\n1953<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
90.<\/td>\nThe towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods.<\/td>\nSinclair Lewis<\/td>\nBabbitt<\/em><\/td>\n1922<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
91.<\/td>\nI will tell you in a few words who I am: lover of the hummingbird that darts to the flower beyond the rotted sill where my feet are propped; lover of bright needlepoint and the bright stitching fingers of humorless old ladies bent to their sweet and infamous designs; lover of parasols made from the same puffy stuff as a young girl’s underdrawers; still lover of that small naval boat which somehow survived the distressing years of my life between her decks or in her pilothouse; and also lover of poor dear black Sonny, my mess boy, fellow victim and confidant, and of my wife and child. But most of all, lover of my harmless and sanguine self.<\/td>\nJohn Hawkes<\/td>\nSecond Skin<\/em><\/td>\n1964<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
92.<\/td>\nHe was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.<\/td>\nRaphael Sabatini<\/td>\nScaramouche<\/em><\/td>\n1921<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
93.<\/td>\nPsychics can see the color of time it’s blue.<\/td>\nRonald Sukenick<\/td>\nBlown Away<\/em><\/td>\n1986<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
94.<\/td>\nIn the town, there were two mutes and they were always together.<\/td>\nCarson McCullers<\/td>\nThe Heart is a Lonely Hunter<\/em><\/td>\n1940<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
95.<\/td>\nOnce upon a time two or three weeks ago, a rather stubborn and determined middle-aged man decided to record for posterity, exactly as it happened, word by word and step by step, the story of another man for indeed what is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal, a somewhat paranoiac fellow unmarried, unattached, and quite irresponsible, who had decided to lock himself in a room a furnished room with a private bath, cooking facilities, a bed, a table, and at least one chair, in New York City, for a year 365 days to be precise, to write the story of another person\u2014a shy young man about of 19 years old\u2014who, after the war the Second World War, had come to America the land of opportunities from France under the sponsorship of his uncle\u2014a journalist, fluent in five languages\u2014who himself had come to America from Europe Poland it seems, though this was not clearly established sometime during the war after a series of rather gruesome adventures, and who, at the end of the war, wrote to the father his cousin by marriage of the young man whom he considered as a nephew, curious to know if he the father and his family had survived the German occupation, and indeed was deeply saddened to learn, in a letter from the young man\u2014a long and touching letter written in English, not by the young man, however, who did not know a damn word of English, but by a good friend of his who had studied English in school\u2014that his parents both his father and mother and his two sisters one older and the other younger than he had been deported they were Jewish to a German concentration camp Auschwitz probably and never returned, no doubt having been exterminated deliberately X * X * X * X, and that, therefore, the young man who was now an orphan, a displaced person, who, during the war, had managed to escape deportation by working very hard on a farm in Southern France, would be happy and grateful to be given the opportunity to come to America that great country he had heard so much about and yet knew so little about to start a new life, possibly go to school, learn a trade, and become a good, loyal citizen.<\/td>\nRaymond Federman<\/td>\nDouble or Nothing<\/em><\/td>\n1971<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
96.<\/td>\nTime is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space.<\/td>\nMargaret Atwood<\/td>\nCat’s Eye<\/em><\/td>\n1988<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
97.<\/td>\nHe\u2014for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it\u2014was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters.<\/td>\nVirginia Woolf<\/td>\nOrlando<\/em><\/td>\n1928<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
98.<\/td>\nHigh, high above the North Pole, on the first day of 1969, two professors of English Literature approached each other at a combined velocity of 1200 miles per hour.<\/td>\nDavid Lodge<\/td>\nChanging Places<\/em><\/td>\n1975<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
99.<\/td>\nThey say when trouble comes close ranks, and so the white people did.<\/td>\nJean Rhys<\/td>\nWide Sargasso Sea<\/em><\/td>\n1966<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
100.<\/td>\nThe cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.<\/td>\nStephen Crane<\/td>\nThe Red Badge of Courage<\/em><\/td>\n1895<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

Imagen: home.earthlink.net.<\/a><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

[email_link]\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

He encontrado esta lista hecha por los editores de American Bool Review, en la que dan su lista de los cien mejores inicios de novelas. Aunque est\u00e1n en ingl\u00e9s, se entienden bastante bien y llama poderosamente la atenci\u00f3n que la primera de todas sea: “Llamadme Ismael”, de Moby Dick, un pedazo de novela de la que extirpar\u00eda el tratado sobre[…]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3561],"tags":[153,2027],"class_list":["post-6001","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-escritura-creativa","tag-american-book-review","tag-lsta"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6001","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6001"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6001\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6001"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6001"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/escribocreativo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6001"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}