Opening Sentence v/s Closing Sentence – How It Impacts a Reader?
Have you ever started reading a book, and right away you knew it was going to be a wild ride?
I’m talking about those iconic first lines—the ones that instantly grab your attention. My mind always goes straight to Moby-Dick (Melville, 1851), with “Call me Ishmael.”
It’s so direct and intriguing that you’re like, “Okay, I’m strapped in; let’s see where this goes.” Or take Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities (1859): “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
That opening is so big and dramatic it almost dares you not to keep reading.
But then there are those last lines, you know—the ones that hit you right in the gut or leave you staring at the wall, processing everything you just experienced.
James Joyce’s Ulysses (1922) ends with “Yes I said yes I will Yes,” and I remember feeling both confused and totally mesmerized at the same time.
Even if you’re not into super-experimental literature, there’s something about that final moment that can stick around in your brain for days.
So, here’s the question I’ve been toying with: Which matters more, those killer first lines or those unforgettable last lines?
The Power Of an Opening Sentence
Grabbing You Right Away
According to something called the primacy effect (Baddeley, 1990), people are extra likely to remember the first part of any new information they come across.
That’s one reason why first sentences can feel so important—they’re front and center, setting up everything that follows. It’s like a first impression: you can’t help but notice it, and it sort of colors how you see the rest of the book.
There’s also this idea in literary criticism about the “narrative contract” (Booth, 1983). Basically, the opening line is the author’s first handshake with you, hinting at the kind of story you’re about to get. Toni Morrison’s Paradise (1997) starts with “They shoot the white girl first,” and I remember thinking, “Wait, what just happened?”
That sense of shock and urgency carried me through the novel because I was desperate to figure out what was going on.
Setting the Scene and Tone
Another cool thing about first lines is that they often tell you a little (or a lot) about what’s coming.
Whether it’s a character introduction or an emotional vibe, the first line can frame the way you read everything else (Miall & Kuiken, 1994). It’s like a map—or maybe a puzzle—giving you clues you use to interpret the rest of the story (Rabinowitz, 1998).
Some authors play with style in the very first line, which can be either super inviting or a little intimidating if they’re going for something experimental.
If the language or structure is really unique right off the bat, it might shake up your usual reading habits (Miall & Kuiken, 1994). That’s part of the fun for me: trying to figure out the author’s “voice” from the get-go.
The Resonance of The Last Line
Closing the Book (Literally and Figuratively)
So, if first lines have that primacy effect going for them, last lines are all about the recency effect (Ebbinghaus, 1885).
What you read most recently tends to stick around, especially if it wraps things up or drops a major twist. The final line is your send-off; it might be the moment that makes you put down the book and go, “Whoa,” or sometimes, “Wait, did I miss something?”
In reader-response theory (Rosenblatt, 1978), the ending is where you do a lot of your mental “work” with a story.
You’re looking back at everything you’ve read, piecing it together, and the last line can act like a lens that reframes the whole experience.
If an ending is ambiguous or shocking, you might find yourself rethinking the entire story just to make sense of that final punch.
That Lingering Feeling
I can’t count the number of times I’ve finished a book and then carried its final line around in my head for days.
That’s the emotional weight of a good conclusion. Researchers have noted how the most intense parts of an experience—plus how it ends—are what we remember best (Kahneman, 2011).
So if a story has been building tension, drama, or emotional stakes, the last line could be like the grand finale of a fireworks show, closing the curtain on all that buildup in a memorable way.
In poems, a final line might flip the meaning of everything that came before it. In a novel or short story, it might deliver the payoff to a question you’ve been chasing from page one.
Either way, it’s kind of amazing how a single sentence can shape your final impression of hundreds of pages of text.
Bringing It All Together
I’ve noticed that a lot of people (including me) tend to obsess over beginnings and endings—both in books and in life, frankly.
Literary critics like Kermode (2000) talk about how the start and finish of any narrative can work together like bookends that define the whole shape of the story.
And from a purely psychological angle, it makes sense: we remember what grabs us first and what leaves us at the end (Baddeley, 1990).
That said, it’s not like the middle doesn’t matter.
If the middle chunk of a book is boring or confusing, even a genius opening line can fade from memory.
But let’s face it—when you talk to friends about a book you loved (or hated), don’t you almost always mention how it started or how it ended?
That’s the power these lines hold.
So Which One Wins?
I’ve come to think it depends.
A riveting first line can definitely hook me faster—sometimes I read the first sentence and go, “Yep, I’m buying this.” But a stellar last line might keep me thinking about the book long after I’ve shelved it.
They both carry weight in different ways. It’s like comparing an appetizer to a dessert: both can be game-changers if done right.
For writers, it’s probably worth spending extra time on both the opening and closing moments. That’s where you really grip the reader’s attention, and later leave them with a final echo.
For readers, just being aware of how these lines shape our experience can make reading even more fun.
Next time you pick up a book, pay attention to how you feel at the first line, and then check in with yourself at the last line to see how that feeling has changed—or maybe stayed the same.
