analysis: first lines of dystopian novels
Warning: This analysis may contain spoilers. I take an in-depth look at what makes this book work and why. And it may only be helpful if you’ve actually read the book. However, continue reading at your own risk. For more information on the Friday Analysis, go here.
FIRST LINES: dystopian novels
So here’s the time for YOU to shine. Tell me WHAT YOU THINK WORKS and WHY IT WORKS in a comment below. I’ll post my ideas below so we can compare notes.
The Adoration of Jenna Fox — Mary E. Pearson
I used to be someone. Someone named Jenna Fox.
Among the Hidden — Margaret Pearson Haddix
He saw the first tree shudder and fall, far of in the distance. The he heard his mother call out the kitchen window: “Luke! Inside. Now.”
The City of Ember — Jeanne DuPrau
When the city of Ember was just built and not yet inhabited, the chief builder and the assistant builder, both of them weary, sat down to speak of the future.
“They must not leave the city for at least two hundred years,” said the chief builder. “Or perhaps two hundred and twenty.”
“Is that long enough?” asked his assistant.
The Dead-Tossed Waves — Carrie Ryan
The story goes that even after the Return they tried to keep the roller coasters going. They said it reminded them of the before time. When they didn’t have to worry about people rising from the dead, when they didn’t have to build fences and walls and barriers to protect themselves from the masses of Mudo constantly seeking human flesh. When the living weren’t forever haunted.
Feed — M.T. Anderson
We went to to the moon to have fun, but the moon turned out to completely suck.
The Forest of Hands and Teeth — Carrie Ryan
My mother used to tell me about the ocean. She said there was a place where there as nothing but water as far as you could see and that it was always moving, rushing toward you and then away. She once showed me a picture that she said was my great-great-great-grandmother standing in the ocean as a child. It has been years since, and the picture was lost to fire long ago, but I remember it, faded and worn. A little girl surrounded by nothingness.
Genesis — Bernard Beckett
Anax moved down the long corridor. The only sound was the gentle hiss of the air filter overhead. The lights were down low, as demanded by the new regulations. She remembered brighter days, but never spoke of them. It was the one of the Great Mistakes, thinking of brightness as a quality of the past.
Girl in the Arena — Lise Haines
The clerk asked for my autograph.
–Do it right across my face, he says.
Usually when we’re out in public everyone wants Allison’s autograph. My mother’s as famous as the men she’s married. OVer the years, she has signed stomachs, tip sheets, shoes, baby carriages, even a sandwich once, and of course thousands of arena souvenir booklets. but until recently, few have asked for my signature.
Gone — Michael Grant
One minute the teacher was talking about the Civil War. And the next minute he was gone.
The Hunger Games — Suzanne Collins
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.
Life as We Knew It — Susan Beth Pfeffer
Lisa is pregnant.
Dad called around 11 o’clock to let us know. only Mom had already taken Jonny to his baseball practice and of course Matt isn’t home from college yet, so I was alone to get the big news.
Little Brother — Cory Doctorow
I’m a senior at Cesar Chavez High in San Fransisco’s sunny Mission district, and that makes me one of the most surveilled people in the world. My name is Marcus Yallow, but back when this story starts, I was going by wIn5s0n. Pronounced “Winston.”
The Maze Runner — James Dashner
He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.
Skinned — Robin Wasserman
Lia Kahn is dead.
I am Lia Kahn.
Therefore–because this is a logic problem even a dimwitted child could solve–I am not dead.
Except here’s the thing: I’m not.
Uglies — Scott Westerfeld
The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit.