Sometimes, I see readers just as they’re beginning a book. Fresh from the store. Page one. Sentence one. I can’t help but wonder which synapses fire, where are they taken upon that first introduction? To borrow the maxim “It’s not the size that matters, it’s how you use it,” this week and next, I thought I’d have some fun. Each entry will contain only the first sentence from the book along with my one sentence response. I’ve even charged myself the task of using the same number of words.

Wish me luck!

Spadina streetcar

Black male, mid 20s, wearing rolled blue jeans, crisp white shirt, and bright red sweater.

Readings in Planning Theory, Susan S. Fainstein (Wiley-Blackwell)

Page one:

What is the ideal city for the twentieth century, the city that best expresses the power and beauty of modern technology and the most enlightened ideas of social justice?

How many popsicles, how many flavours, how many summer days, to complete his long cabin with wooden boardwalk over boy-made marsh leading to the hall where townsfolk danced nightly.

(Originally published March 30, 2007)

Caucasian male, early 20s, with bright red stubble, wearing grey hoodie and jean jacket. His back pocket bulges under the weight of his wallet and a chain dangles from his waistband.

Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke (Norton)

Page 72:

And if there is one thing more that I must say to you, it is this: Do not believe that he who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good. His life has much difficulty and sadness and remains far behind yours. Were it otherwise he would never have been able to find those words.

He planted the last tree and wiped his hands on the front of his thighs. He cut through the field to where the stream narrows and found the bunch of them laughing, an open cooler filled with beer and cold cuts. She tore at the skin of a large olive with her teeth, rolling it over her fingers before popping it whole into her mouth. Bottles clinked, a quick Cheers to a hard day. She rubbed her lower back, trying to feel grateful for the pain if it meant she was still alive. She tapped tobacco onto a paper and licked the edge, laughing at the tail end of a joke she didn’t hear. Tomorrow she’d start treatment.

Nick Thran’s Insomniac Press author bio

(Originally published September 19, 2007)

Spadina streetcar, Tom’s of Maine

Caucasian woman, early 20s, with short, spiky red hair tucked in a green paisley bandana, wearing a loose black T-shirt with a hole in the right shoulder at the seam, fraying jeans shorts and Crocs.

No Logo, Naomi Klein (Knopf)

Page 138:

After all, the Gap’s project is to take a distinctive object–clothing–and brand it so completely that purchasing it from the Gap is as easy as buying a quart of milk or a can of Coke. Starbucks, on the other hand, is in the business of taking a much more generic object –a cup of coffee– and branding it so completely that it becomes a spiritual/designer object. So Starbucks doesn’t want to be known as a blockbuster, it wants, as its marketing director Scott Bedbury says, to “align ourselves with one of the greatest movements towards finding a connection with your soul.”

She buys her organic coffee at The Big Carrot, $2.00 for a large, sweetened with Stevia, and her croissant at Tim Horton’s where it’s solid and chewy, not airy and dry, because she resents paying for something that flakes off into the bag as if her money grows on trees.

Mamma’s Pizza, waiting for a slice

Caucasian woman, early 40s, with windblown grey hair, wearing flowing grey dress and black sandals, a Swipe Books bag at her feet.

Ikonica: A Field Guide to Canada’s Brandscape, Jeanette Hanna & Alan Middleton (Douglas & McIntyre)

Page 59:

Joe’s Rant:

Hey, I’m not a lumberjack, or a fur trader . . . I don’t live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled . . . and I don’t know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, although I’m certain they’re really, really nice. I have a prime minister, not a president. I speak English and French, not American. And I pronounce it “about,” not “a boot.” I can proudly sew my country’s flag on my backpack. I believe in peacekeeping, not policing; diversity, not assimilation, and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal. A toque is a hat. A chesterfield is a couch, and it is pronounced ‘zed’ not ‘zee’, ‘zed’! Canada is the second largest land mass! The first nation of hockey! And the best part of North America! My name is Joe! And I am CANADIAN!

Hey, I don’t wear plaid, or a ball cap. I don’t live on The Island or eat only rice and beans. I don’t know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from the bar, although I’m certain they’re really, really nice. I have a King and a Queen. I speak with and without gender. And I pronounce it “gay”, “queer”, or “lesbian” but you can call me by my first name. I can’t sew to save my country, but my backpack carries the flag. I believe in police who keep my peace; diversity, not assimilation, and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal. A toque makes me look like Beckham. A chesterfield is a yard sale’s lover’s dream. And it’s pronounced ‘Sistah’ not ‘Sister’, ‘Sistah’! Canada is a safe haven! The first nation to say “Stay out of my bedroom!’ And the best part of North America! My name is Jillian! And I am LESBIAN!