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Me, I was still in the pygmy hippo in a skirt, singing lusty songs about Solomon's private life and a giant stone back and forth through the air as I climbed out of the quarry at the edge of the site.

Jonathan Stroud

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Jonathan Stroud
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: October 27
Novelist
Writer
Jonathan Anthony Stroud
Edges
Solomon
Stills
Climbed
Still
Forth
Skirts
Back
Stones
Giant
Pygmy
Life
Private
Site
Lusty
Air
Giants
Quarry
Singing
Edge
Hippo
Songs
Stone
Skirt
Song

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He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens.
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That's usuаllу hоw thеу start, thе young оnеs. Meaningless waffle.
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That's a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland
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Besides, if you're going to die horribly, you might as well do it with style.
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The afrit batted his eyelashes with a ostentatious lack of concern. Indeed? Have you a name? A name? I cried. I have MANY names! I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni! I am N'gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes! I paused dramatically. The young man looked blank. Nope never heard of you. Now if you'll just-
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I read a bit of the Icelandic sagas. They're fascinating in that they are completely ordinary. The farmer will go off into the hills and fight a troll, and then go back and do ordinary things. It's an odd mix of fantasy and reality.
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Then again, Solomon was human. And that meant he was flawed (Go on, take a look at yourself in the mirror. A good long look, if you can bear it. See? Flawed's putting it mildly, isn't it?)
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There was a loud cough from the man on the stand. I replaced My Magic Mirror carefully on his tray, gave him a cheesy smile, and went my way.
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When I was young, I kept a diary for about 10 years and I had to write in it every day. Even on days when nothing seemed to happen, I made myself think of something to put in it.
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Most traditional ghost stories feature rather hapless protagonists, who have nasty things happen to them.
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Zealots: Wild eyed persons afflicted with incurable certainty about the workings of the world, a certainty that can lead to violence when the world doesn't fit.
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We communicated with pithy, rather monosyllabic thoughts: viz. Run, Jump, Where? Left, Up, Duck, ect. (This latter was an observation I made on the edge of a lake. Nathaniel unfortunately took it as a command, which resulted in our temporary immersion.) We didn't ever quite say Ug, but it was a close-run thing.
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What is a gathering without unseemly drunkenness?
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If anyone else asked that question, O He Who Is Terrible and Great, I would have said they were an ignorant fool in you it is a sign of the disarming simplicity which is the fount of all virtue.
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Oh, the boots were on the other eight feet now.
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Ah, you coward! Look at you, running. Actually, it's called improvising.
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What was it that drew you back? My marvellous personality, I suppose? Or my sparkling conversation?
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Can you define plan as a loose sequence of manifestly inadequate observations and conjectures, held together by panic, indecision, and ignorance? If so, it was a very good plan.
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When I write something that would have made me laugh as a 10-year-old, or would have scared me or would have excited me, I know I'm onto something.
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