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Nathan Bransford posted a while ago on how [|prologues in books]can be problematic. The main idea is that they are often unnecessary and require the reader to essentially "start a book twice." It's worth reading if you're considering starting your novel with one.

Soon after reading that post, I picked up my roommate's copy of [|Pillars of the Earth], by Ken Follett. As irony would dictate, I opened it up and stumbled upon an absolutely amazing prologue. Seriously, this was the type of passage that makes you close the book momentarily to let your heartbeat slow down, after which you check the clock and convince yourself that nobody will notice if you get to work just a liiittle bit later than usual.

Since I was already in "prologue mode" after Nathan's post, I started thinking about why this one worked so well. For the purposes of this post, I've summarized the prologue below. If you have time though, I'd recommend reading the entire prologue on Follett's webpage [|here], if only because it's a good read.

The prologue starts with medieval peasants gathering for a hanging. We soon realize that there's something strange about this execution -- the accused is a foreigner and has no apparent motive for the crime. There's the normal heckling as he gets positioned on the gallows, but then he starts singing. His voice is strong and beautiful, and he is clearly singing to someone in the crowd. The mob parts to reveal a young woman, weeping silently and pregnant with the accused's child. After this brief, magical moment, the execution continues and the ox pulls away. The man hangs. However, there's a twist -- a bystander's scream draws our attention back to the young woman, who has dropped to her knees. She delivers a curse, calling down suffering and death on the three witnesses who had unjustly condemned her lover. She seals the curse by beheading a cockerel and splattering the blood on the accusers. The scene ends with her fleeing into the forest while the three dazed accusers watch the headless rooster run in circles under the body of the executed man.

Act 1, Prologue
PROLOGUE

Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; Whole misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, And the continuance of their parents' rage, Which, but their children's end, nought could remove, Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage; The which if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

by Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?-1400)
 * The Canterbury Tales **

Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury When April with his showers sweet with fruit The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, Quickened again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)- Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in sundry lands. And specially from every shire's end Of England they to Canterbury wend, The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who help ed them when they lay so ill and weal Befell that, in that season, on a day In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay Ready to start upon my pilgrimage To Canterbury, full of devout homage, There came at nightfall to that hostelry Some nine and twenty in a company Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all That toward Canterbury town would ride. The rooms and stables spacious were and wide, And well we there were eased, and of the best. And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest, So had I spoken with them, every one, That I was of their fellowship anon, And made agreement that we'd early rise To take the road, as you I will apprise. But none the less, whilst I have time and space, Before yet farther in this tale I pace, It seems to me accordant with reason To inform you of the state of every one Of all of these, as it appeared to me, And who they were, and what was their degree, And even how arrayed there at the inn; And with a knight thus will I first begin.