Fuck opening lines. Post great closing lines

Fuck opening lines. Post great closing lines.
>Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.

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>The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.

Makes me cry everytime.

"How much is that in real money?"

And at last, I took a firm grasp of Stormy Sea at Night (Aivazovsky, 1849, oil on canvas) by both sides of the frame and, with all my quickness and might, tore it from the wall and smashed it as hard as I could on the gallery floor.

I took the professor's dice, and then, with the last, nightmarish sentence flitting through my mind,
I rolled fifty consecutive sevens.
Good-by.

And then there were non. The judge had killed the ten little niggers.

From the Temple of the Golden Pavilion. Sick of living, Mizoguchi burns said temple and plans to kill himself.

>From where Is at the Golden Temple itself was invisible. All that I could see was the eddying smoke and the great fire that rose into the sky. The flakes from the fire drifted between the trees and the Golden Temple's sky seemed to be strewn with golden sand.
>I crossed my legs and sat gazing for a long time at the scene.
>When I came to myself, I found that my body was covered in blisters and scars and that I was bleeding profusely. My fingers also were stained with blood, evidently from when I had hurt them by knocking against the temple door. I licked my wounds like an animal that has fled from its pursuers.
>I looked in my pocket and extracted the bottle of arsenic, wrapped in my handkerchief, and the knife. I threw them down the ravine.
>Then I noticed the pack of cigarettes in my other pocket. I took one out and started smoking. I felt like a man who settles down for a smoke after finishing a job of work. I wanted to live.

>She will feed you tomatoes and radio wires and retire to sheets safe and clean. But don't hate her when she gets up to leave.

who else reads the first and last sentence of fiction to determine if it is worth reading or not? if you can't make me wonder how you got from the one to the other you lost me

It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.

>Well-known, alas, is the case of the poor German who was very fond of three and who made each aspect of his life a thing of triads. He went home one evening and drank three cups of tea with three lumps of sugar in each cup, cut his jugular with a razor three times and scrawled with a dying hand on a picture of his wife good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.

Dude our most glorious and Holy Bible starts with 'In the beginning' and finishes with 'Amen' -- I just noticed it's probably the most intriguing fiction I've yet read.

Somebody is living on this beach.

those are some awesome clasps for fiction.
a shame some passages are boring af

And, with the final whips and cracks of pungent fart gas ripping and tearing their way out of her glorious bumhole, growing softer and softer, and quieter and quieter until at last, subsiding to naught but a series of gentle intrusions rippling up and out and popping like bubbles on the surface of a pond, I inhaled the last breath of her sweet perfume.

I am James Joyce, and this, ladies and gentlemen, has been my Ulysses.

I, too, was there indeed, drank the wine and the mead,
What I saw and heard wrote here for all you to read.

'Crash', I thought 'mum no longer makes pancakes'

>not "A crash sometimes means something good"

Then?

Crash! There were zero enemies left, even if you counted God.

Kek what is this

love endings like this. the main event of the story occurs and leaves the MC, who the audience knows they can't return to within the context of the story, as all is said and done and there he is, smoking on a cliffside.

"Isn't it pretty to think so?"

And, in the end, they truly were Hesiod's Works and Days.

This is NMH isn't it

>(...) for better or worse we would prevail, so hail injustices, hail horrors, so long as we love, long live man. Long live.

The gunslinger fled across the desert, and the men in black followed

spoiler alert faggots

>"I will come," said Peter, but he sat on for a moment. What is this terror? what is this ecstacy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement?
>It is Clarissa, he said
>For there she was

Finally, at long last, I can show the world my true
worth.

what a hack

Kek

And it was thus that we observed gravity's rainbow.

>Oedipa settled back, to await the crying of lot 49.

He was, truly, a Pinecone.

She yummed herself.

>all these meme responses
kill yourselves you cancerous faggots

Report on the Barnhouse Effect by Vonnegut.
engl2323.com/lit/VONNEGUT-BarnhouseEffect.html

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

"Shut up, Bobby Lee" The Misfit said. "It's no real pleasure in life."

I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark

There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of the inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space."

>V: Well? Shall we go?
>E: Yes, let's go.
>They do not move

>As she closed her eyes for the last time, a final sputter of air escaped from her arse.
>And then there was silence.

terrible closing line, why would you have to specify so many things if it's at the end of a chapter?

"Yes. Isn't it pretty to think so?"

>Until next time, when Achilles finally gets shot in the tendon and the Trojan horse thing finally happens--events for which this Muse is too tired out to relate.

Have the whole last paragraph. Enjoy. This is as good as it gets.

>A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.