I love first chapters.

Actually, to be more specific, I love first lines. Whenever I am browsing a bookstore, I always flip the books open to their first pages. A first line says so much about the content of the book. It is the reader's first encounter with the world. It is the author's first encounter with the reader.

In _The Memory Police _by Yoko Ogawa, translated by Stephen Snyder, the first line reads, "I sometimes wonder what was disappeared first - among all the things that have vanished from the island."

On a technical level, this first line establishes quite a bit: there is a first person narrator; the conflict is introduced; the setting is established.

It also gives the reader a taste of the meloncholy tone. "Disappeared" and "vanished" have negative connotations; there is a hint of the magical in "vanished," especially.

Not a bad first line.

The first chapter then expands this line. We're given a glimpse into the narrator's childhood, into a moment with her mother. This scene, much like the first line, accomplishes quite a bit. We learn about an integral relationship in the narrator's life as we learn about the disappearances of certain items.

Ribbons. Bells. Emeralds. Stamps.

These are just a few items that have disappeared from this island. Vanished. And with them, the people's memory of that item, as well. The narrator's mother laments the vanishing of perfume. Now, no one can smell it.

The chapter closes with a key line of dialogue that piques the reader's interest:

"Mama, why do you remember all the things that have been disappeared? Why can you still smell the 'perfume'j that everyone else has forgotten?"

And so, we read on. We want to know, too.

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