This game is very simple: you try to guess what book the given first lines are from. The one to guess the correct book first will be the next to post their own, which everyone else will then try to guess, and so on. If it seems like no one gets it right, you can give additional hints.

I'll start with a modern classic:
When he was nearly thirteen my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right-angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh.

Start guessing, folks! :)

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Replies to This Discussion

This is a wild guess, but _The World According To Garp_ by John Irving.
Close enough, you get half a point and a turn to post yours. :) It's actually Irving's The Cider House Rules. (Sorry everyone for not replying earlier!)
Ok, here goes:

__All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

All was confusion in the Oblonskys' house. The wife had found out that the husband was having an affair with their former French governess, and had announced to the husband that she could not live in the same house with him. This situation had continued for three days now, and was painfully felt by the couple themselves, as well as by all the members of the family and household.__
Well, no one guessed or replied, so I googled it. It is Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy.
Yep.

One of my favorite books.
Okay, here is the new challenge. The name in the first sentence was removed by me, as it would have totally given it away:

My name is (_______________). My father was a respectable trader in sea-stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in every thing, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New Bank, as it was formerly called. By these and other means he had managed to lay by a tolerable sum of money. He was more attached to myself, I believe, than to any other person in the world, and I expected to inherit the most of his property at his death. He sent me, at six years of age, to the school of old Mr. Ricketts, a gentleman with only one arm and of eccentric manners- he is well known to almost every person who has visited New Bedford. I stayed at his school until I was sixteen, when I left him for Mr. E. Ronald's academy on the hill. Here I became intimate with the son of Mr. Barnard, a sea-captain, who generally sailed in the employ of Lloyd and Vredenburgh- Mr. Barnard is also very well known in New Bedford, and has many relations, I am certain, in Edgarton. His son was named Augustus, and he was nearly two years older than myself. He had been on a whaling voyage with his father in the John Donaldson, and was always talking to me of his adventures in the South Pacific Ocean. I used frequently to go home with him, and remain all day, and sometimes all night. We occupied the same bed, and he would be sure to keep me awake until almost light, telling me stories of the natives of the Island of Tinian, and other places he had visited in his travels. At last I could not help being interested in what he said, and by degrees I felt the greatest desire to go to sea. I owned a sailboat called the Ariel, and worth about seventy-five dollars. She had a half-deck or cuddy, and was rigged sloop-fashion- I forget her tonnage, but she would hold ten persons without much crowding. In this boat we were in the habit of going on some of the maddest freaks in the world; and, when I now think of them, it appears to me a thousand wonders that I am alive to-day.
Yes, that is correct. Your turn.
Judith, it won't let me respond directly to your post. I'm not familiar with this at all, but I am going to take a flying guess: Tuesday's with Maury?
Another wild guess: The Martian Chronicles, by Ray Bradbury.
I'm clueless. Let's give it a while and see if the other members find the time to jump in.
I have no idea.
A guess. "Notes From the Underground" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

I had a big argument about this being an existentialist novel about 10 years ago.

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