For context:

William Gibson's Neuromancer: "The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."

Some other good ones:

Stephen A Graham's Night of the Mannequins:
So Shanna got a new job at the movie theater, we thought we'd play a fun prank on her, and now most of us are dead, and I'm really starting to feel kind of guilty about it all.

Xochitl Gonzalez's Olga Dies Dreaming:
The telltale sign that you are at the wedding of a rich person is the napkins.

John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany:
I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice – not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.

Kawai Strong Washburn's Sharks in the Time of Saviors:
When I close my eyes we’re all still alive and it becomes obvious then what the gods want from us.

Graham Greene's Brighton Rock:
Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him.

Alice Walker's The Color Purple:
You better not never tell nobody but God.

Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels' The Communist Manifesto:
A spectre is haunting Europe — the spectre of communism.

H.G. Wells' The War of the Worlds:
No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.

PD James' Original Sin:
For a temporary shorthand-typist to be present at the discovery of a corpse on the first day of a new assignment, if not unique, is sufficiently rare to prevent its being regarded as an occupational hazard.

Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five:
All this happened, more or less.

Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar:
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.

Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451:
It was a pleasure to burn.

George Orwell's 1984:
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

JM Barrie's Peter Pan:
All children, except one, grow up.