Turn Julian Barnes's Booker-winning title, The Sense of an Ending, on its head and consider the promise of a beginning. While Barnes begins his novel remembering "in no particular order", it is worth pointing out that order is rather important, as is shown by recollecting the many great opening lines, cherished for their primacy as well as their prose. Take their seasons: "To the red country, and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently..."; "The primroses were over". Or their smells: "It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love." Their threats: "It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night" or unwavering pronouncements: "You too will marry a boy I choose...". Or their sweep: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times", or precision: "It was seven minutes after midnight", or seeming indictment: "Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful...". Their unfathomable musings: "For a long time, I went to bed early." And their hints of later significance: "Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal...". From the muted: "I'm unsure why one trifling incident this afternoon has moved me to write to you" to the beyond category: "It was the day my grandmother exploded", the opening line guides – and sometimes stirs: "In my beginning is my end." In no particular order, the first line: the wings of the narrative, echoes its close.