[John Whitworth]

Humph. Where's Nabokov. He's the only one I can do. Tolkien? What's Tolkein?

No. 2831: Essence of…

You are invited to compose what might be a quintessential opening paragraph from the pen of one of the following: Graham Greene, Franz Kafka, Tolkien, Jane Austen (150 words max.). Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 15 January.

[Adrian Fry]

I know saying so will guarantee that I won't win, but this is my favourite kind of competition.

[Lance Levens]

Kafka:

Whereas in earlier days there was money to be earned hauling your gifted child from store to store on main street and forcing him or her to recite The Gettysburg Address as a Spoonerism or The Periodic Chart in Greek, putting on major productions of this sort under one’s own management nowadays is impossible. Those gifted children were once all the rage. And of course everyone wanted one. Mothers traveled to Russia and China and even Ireland to procure one. Everyone wanted to see the child out-whiz the the adults. Most parents sold tickets and some observers came for hours beforehand standing in the rain to see a particular genius recite the entire lost version of Sophocles "Hecuba." Most doting and loving parents placed their off spring inside a cage, fur-lined of course, with a TV and a lap top. During the final days there were people with subscription tickets who sat all day in front of the small barred cage observing, taking notes, shooting footage. When the prodigy began to weep and rattle the cage, the note takers flew into ecstasy because they were witnessing the throes of genius. They felt like midwives there at the birth of a cerebral miracle.

[Roger Slater]

Kafka:

On the morning K awoke to find himself transformed into a grotesque bug, his doorbell rang and two unsmiling gentlemen led him down a corridor he had never seen before although it was attached to the home he had lived in all his life. He assumed it was just a giant misunderstanding, as was, he presumed, the scroll of paper they flashed before him accusing him of unspecified offenses against the Queen, of whom he had never heard, and commanding him to appear before the Royal Hive, whose existence had hitherto eluded his awareness. He went cheerfully, with a bounce in the step of all six legs, confident that the matter would soon be sorted out.

[Gail White]

Jane Austen

Jane Hamilton had reached the age of 19 without losing either her heart or her fortune, and so seemed little qualified to be a heroine. She had, however, resolved to fall in love on her 20th birthday, and had persuaded her mother (who needed little inducement) to invite three eligible bachelors to the fete. But alas for romance! On the morning of the day that would decide her fate, Jane awoke from uneasy dreams and found herself transformed in her bed into a gigantic ladybug. "Oh dear", she thought, "red doesn't suit me at all, and black spots are so out of fashion. I shall never be able to face my sisters, who have probably been turned into charming creatures like luna moths, and will captivate all the men. My sisters are so spiteful, and the men have so little sense."

[Rob Stuart]

The morning sun, called Elindéluin by the Tree Elves of the Rithuén Forest, Elué by the Fire Elves of Mount Lalelleulínldeon, Krak by the Dwarves who dwelt in the Great Mines of Lukka beyond the Merchant Valley of Prik, Agläxa by the Great Sitters of Emkala, Dröknig by the Voleherders of Rrrrl, Wahr-e-Uffundur by the Light Blue Princes of the South-eastern Realm, Uh by the Medium-Sized Woodlice of Grûn and Salkadääämatardatä in the tongue of the Daäarkamätradian Paladins, rose.

[John Whitworth]

Ah! That Tolkien! He could bore for England, couldn't he? Good stuff, Rob.

[Sylvia Fairley]

I can't help feeling this competition will divide the sheep from the goats, and I'm well aware of the group of ungulates to which I belong!

[John Whitworth]

Goats are better than sheep, Sylvia. More intelligent. Prettier.

[Brian Allgar]

Father Drooby awoke every morning with the bitter taste of defeat and despair in his mouth, although it was often hard to distinguish it from the previous evening's chilli con carne. He quietly cursed the God in whom he no longer believed. How could He have permitted that dreadful accident in which Drooby's mistress, the wife of his best friend, had died, yet her repellent dog had survived? Malevolent, contemptuous of human aspirations and desires, indifferent to human suffering - and that was just the dog. God, if He had ever existed, must be far worse.

Drooby felt the weight of failure sitting on his shoulders like a crate of rotting sardines. His missionary work in Indochina, Sierra Leone and Haiti had been disastrous. Even his modest ambition to become a whisky priest in Mexico had had to be abandoned when he found that he couldn't stand the taste of whisky.