Not quite a door-knocker...
People always seems to remember the fact of Marley's death, but whilst Dickens had an undeniable flair for opening stories, I maintain that few subsequent writings can parallel this personal favourite:
"He came a far road, was weary, found peace,
and set all his labours on a tablet of stone.
He built the rampart of Uruk-the-Sheepfold,
of holy Eanna, the sacred storehouse.
See its wall like a strand of wool,
view its parapet that none could copy!
Take the stairway of a bygone era,
draw near to Eanna, the seat of Ishtar the goddess,
that no later king could ever copy!
Climb Uruk's wall and walk back and forth!
Survey its foundations, examine the brickwork!
Were its bricks not fired in an oven?
Did the Seven Sages not lay its foundations?
A square mile is the city, a square mile date-grove, a square mile is
clay-pit, half a square mile the temple of Ishtar:
three square miles and a half is Uruk's expanse.
See the tablet-box of cedar,
release its clasp of bronze!
Lift the lid of its secret,
pick up the tablet of lapis lazuli and read out
the travails of Gilgamesh, all that he went through."
Who reads that and doesn't feel the warm breeze blowing through their hair as they survey the city? The worn steps beneath their feet as they climb? Who does not hear the rustle of palm leaves from their vantage point, just audible beneath the sounds of people thriving? Feels the smooth wood of the lid as they open the box, the smell of time passing as a gasp of air is released from its long-neglected prison? The weight of the tablet, the buzz of anticipation for the first word of what promises to be an epic tale?
In a few short lines, the reader is transported to ancient times, in what is now Iraq. In that instant, the story is so vivid it could almost be real - and how many authors have achieved that?
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