First Line Finds Leisure Book Display

A new display is up! One thing that has always interested me is the first line of a book--the one that draws you in as a reader. What if you only see that first line and didn't have context of the title or author? Would you still be drawn in? This display taps into that curiosity.

I've scheduled each of the photos of the individual books to go up on our Facebook page between now and mid-November, with this context as the caption:

There's a new leisure display up at the library -- Drawn in by the first line? Find it on display and check it out! 

[Quote]

Intrigued? Check it out from the GV Library Leisure section!  

Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

In Mom’s underwear drawer--as I was separating her ‘personal’ clothes from the ‘lightly used’ articles I could donate to the local thrift shop--I found a letter you wrote.

The child was just there on the stoop in the dark, hugging herself against the cold, all cried out and nearly sleeping. She couldn’t holler anymore and they didn’t hear her anyway, or they might and that would make things worse.

June the first, a bright summer’s evening, a Monday. I’ve been flying over the streets and houses of Dublin and now, finally, I’m here. I enter through the roof. Via a skylight I slide into a living room and right away I know it’s a woman who lives here.

Leon Hubbard died ten minutes into lunch break on the first Monday in May, on the construction site of the new one-story trauma wing at Holy Redeemer Hospital in South Philadelphia. One way or the other, he was going to lose the job.

Boyang had thought grief would make people less commonplace. The waiting room at the crematory, however, did not differentiate itself from elsewhere: the eagerness to be served first and the suspicion that others had snatched a better deal were reminiscent of the marketplace or stock exchange.

Early that June, Constantine Boyd left Detroit with his usual trunk but got on a train headed east instead of west. For the past three summers he’d worked at his uncle’s farm in western Michigan, but now, just as he was becoming truly useful, his family had made other plans.

Minnie Graves is a bridesmaid.

She hates it.

Her bangs are crispy with Aqua Net. Her ponytail is so tight her forehead aches. Her feet throb in shoes that are a size too small, Mary Janes dyed special to match the totally rancid dress Minnie’s big sister, Jennifer, picked out just for her.

When Pemberton returned to the North Carolina mountains after three months in Boston settling his father’s estate, among those waiting on the train platform was a young woman pregnant with Pemberton’s child. She was accompanied by her father, who carried beneath his shabby frock coat a bowie knife sharpened with great attentiveness earlier that morning so it would plunge as deep as possible into Pemberton’s heart.