BELOW WE REPRINT our Christmas Bonus Book Bag story, "The American Lieutenant's Woman," composed by Jonathan Yardley using the first sentences of 44 novels. Each of the sentences is numbered, and a list of sources for each line follows. Response to the Bonus Book Bag question, which appeared in our pages December 8, was large and enthusiastic, and we congratulate the six winners (or winning teams) chosen at random from among the correct entries. Each winner will receive a Book World book bag and an autographed copy of Jonathan Yardley's biography of Ring Lardner.

(1) An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. (2) A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. (3) I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.

(4) I am an American, Chicago-born -- Chicago, that somber city -- and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent. (5) Call me Ishmael. (6) I was leaning against the bar in a speakeasy on Fifty-Second Street, waiting for Nora to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had been sitting with three other people and came over to me. (7) "Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

(8) It was love at first sight. (9) Love conquers all -- omnia vincit amor, said the gold scroll in a curve beneath the dial of the old French gilt clock. (10) When I was seventeen and in full obedience to my heart's most urgent commands, I stepped far from the pathway of normal life and in a moment's time ruined everything I loved -- I loved so deeply, and when the love was interrupted, when the incorporeal body of love shrank back in terror and my own body was locked away, it was hard for others to believe that a life so new could suffer so irrevocably. (11) This is the saddest story I have ever heard.

(12) In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. (13) The towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods. (14) The day broke gray and dull. (15) Nobody could sleep. (16) The cold passed reluctantly from the earth and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.

(17) When I reached C Company lines, which were at the top of the hill, I paused and looked back at the camp, just coming into full view below me through the grey mist of early morning. (18) It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way -- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. (19) One never knows when the blow may fall. (20) They threw me off the hay truck about noon.

(21) They're out there. (22) A throng of bearded men, in sa-colored garments and gray, steeple-crowned hats, intermixed with women, some wearing hoods, and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and studded with iron spikes. (23)Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting. (24) By nightfall the headlines would be reporting devastation.

(25) There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. (26) It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered before the adverse hosts could meet. (27) I confess that when I first made acquaintance with Charles Strickland I never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of the ordinary. (28) He awoke, opened his eyes. (29) To have a reason to get up in the morning, it is necessary to possess a guiding principle. (30) Waking up begins with saying am and now. (31) "Now, what I want is, Facts." (32) There is, as every schoolboy knows in this scientific age, a very close chemical relation between coal and diamonds.

(33) When he finished packing, he walked out onto the third-floor porch of the barracks brushing the dust from his hands, a very neat and deceptively slim young man in the summer khakis that were still early morning fresh. (34) Often he thought: My life did not begin until I knew her. (35) She was so deeply embedded in my consciousness that for the first year of school I seem to have believed that each of my teachers was my mother in disguise. (36) All happy families resemble one another, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

(37) It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. (38) The possessive instinct never stands still. (39) This is the story of what a Woman's patience can endure, and what a Man's resolution can achieve. (40) Whether or no, she, whom you are to forgive, if you can, did or did not belong to the Upper Ten Thousand of this our English world, I am not prepared to say with any strength of affirmation. (41) It is a cause of very great regret to me that this task has taken so much longer a time than I had expected for its completetion. (42) In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

(43) The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there. (44) Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. . . .


1. The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, by Henry Fielding

2. The End of the Affair, by Graham Greene

3. Ethan Frome, by Edith Wharton

4. The Adventures of Augie March, by Saul Bellow

5. Moby Dick, by Herman Melville

6. The Thin Man, by Dashiell Hammett

7. Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott

8. Catch-22, by Joseph Heller

9. By Love Possessed, by James Gould Cozzens

10. Endless Love, by Scott Spencer

11. The Good Soldier, by Ford Maddox Ford

12. A Farewell to Arms, by Ernest Hemingway

13. Babbitt, by Sinclair Lewis

14. Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham

15. The Naked and the Dead, by Norman Mailer

16. The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane

17. Brideshead Revisited, by Evelyn Waugh

18. A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens

19. The Third Man, by Graham Greene

20. The Postman Always Rings Twice, by James M. Cain

21. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, by Ken Kesey

22. The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne

23. The Sound and the Fury, by William Faulkner

24. The Transit of Venus, by Shirley Hazzard

25. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte

26. The Last of the Mohicans, by James Fenimore Cooper

27. The Moon and Sixpence, by W. Somerset Maugham

28. The Sheltering Sky, by Paul Bowles

29. Ordinary People, by Judith Guest

30. A Single Man, by Christopher Isherwood

31. Hard Times, by Charles Dickens

32. Victory, by Joseph Conrad

33. From Here to Eternity, by James Jones

34. Mr. Bridge, by Evan S. Connell

35. Portnoy's Complaint, by Philip Roth

36. Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy

37. Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen

38. In Chancery, by John Galsworthy

39. The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins

40. Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollope

41. Green Mansions, by William H. Hudson

42. The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

43. The Go-Between, by L. P. Hartley

44. A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man, by James Joyce