Mitchell Edgeworth


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Mitchell Edgeworth

Goodreads Author


Born
in Perth, Australia
Website

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Member Since
February 2014


Average rating: 3.93 · 14 ratings · 1 review · 10 distinct works
West Gate

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 2 ratings
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Melbourne Unanchor Travel G...

liked it 3.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 2015
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Star Quake 3: SQ Mag's Best...

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3.50 avg rating — 6 ratings3 editions
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Aurealis #80

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3.50 avg rating — 4 ratings — published 2015 — 2 editions
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Theaker's Quarterly Fiction...

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it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2013 — 2 editions
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Theaker's Quarterly Fiction...

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it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 3 ratings — published 2015 — 2 editions
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Theaker's Quarterly Fiction...

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liked it 3.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 2012 — 2 editions
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Theaker's Quarterly Fiction...

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0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings — published 2013 — 2 editions
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Star Quake 1

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0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings — published 2013 — 3 editions
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Streets of Laredo by Larry McMurtry
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Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
" Fantastic review. Have you read the entire series? Lonesome Dove is clearly the standout, but I think overall they’re even better than the sum of thei ...more "
Video Movie Guide 1998 by Mick Martin
" I highly recommend Hereditary - one of the most memorable films I’ve seen in years. "
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" His second wasn't quite as good as this one, but still thoroughly enjoyable; an author to keep an eye on "
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" My most enduring memory of this book, ten years down the line, is that - in a theoretically fascinating alternate history world - it seemed to spend a ...more "
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Topics Mentioning This Author

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Horror Aficionados : Pseudopod 463 1012 Sep 30, 2018 10:53AM  
“Guns are not just for killing. Guns are for having, for showing; guns are a warning.”
Shane Carrow, The Wasteland

“That night, though, far out into the North Atlantic, there were no lights to be seen, for there was no shipping. The deep-water lanes that ducted the big freighters stayed much closer to the Lewis mainland. There was the Hebridean, 500 yards or so off our port stern, its green starboard lamp winking as it rose and fell in the waves. Otherwise, the only lights were celestial. The star-patterns, the grandiose slosh of the Milky Way. Jupiter, blazing low to the east, so brightly that it laid a lustrous track across the water, inviting us to step out onto its swaying surface. The moon, low, a waxing half, richly coloured – a red butter moon, setting down its own path on the water. The sea was full of luminescent plankton, so behind us purled our wake, a phosphorescent line of green and yellow bees, as if the hull were setting a hive aswarm beneath us. We were at the convergence of many paths of light, which flexed and moved with us as we headed north.”
Robert McFarlane

Willa Cather
“In those days, even in European countries, death had a solemn social importance. It was not regarded as a moment when certain bodily organs ceased to function, but as a dramatic climax, a moment when the soul made its entrance into the next world, passing in full consciousness through a lowly door to an unimaginable scene. Among the watchers there was always the hope that the dying man might reveal something of what he alone could see; that his countenance, if not his lips, would speak, and on his features would fall some great light or shadow from beyond. The “Last Words” of great men, Napoleon, Lord Byron, were still printed in gift-books, and the dying murmurs of every common man or woman were listened for and treasured by their neighbours and kinsfolk. These sayings, no matter how unimportant, were given oracular significance and pondered by those who must one day go the same road.”
Willa Cather

Kim Stanley Robinson
“But for now it’s goodbye to the beaches, and indeed many a celebrated island of yore now lies deep under the waves. An entire world and way of life has disappeared with these fabled places, a lifeway that went right back to the beginning of the species in south and east Africa, where the earliest humans were often intimately involved with the sea. That wet, sandy, tidal, salty, sun-flecked, beautiful beach life: all gone, along with so much else, of course; animals, plants, fish. It’s part of the mass extinction event they are still struggling to end, to escape. So much has been lost that will never come back again, that the loss of the joy of the relatively few humans who were lucky enough to live on the strand, who combed the beaches, and fished, and rode the waves, and lay in the sun – that’s nothing much to grieve for, given everything else that has been lost, all the suffering, all the hunger, all the death, all the extinctions. Most of the mammal species are gone.

Still, it was a way of life much beloved, and still remembered in art and song, image and story – still legendary, still a lost golden age, vibrating at some level below thought, there in their salty blood and tears, in the long, curled waves of DNA that still break inside them all.”
Kim Stanley Robinson

T.H. White
“He suddenly felt the intense sad loveliness of being as being, apart from right or wrong: that, indeed, the mere fact of being was the ultimate right. He began to love the land under him with a fierce longing, not because it was good or bad, but because it was: because of the shadows of the corn stocks on a golden evening; because the sheep’s tails would rattle when they ran, and the lambs, sucking, would revolve their tails in little eddies; because the clouds in daylight would surge it into light and shade; because the squadrons of green and golden plover, worming in pasture fields, would advance in short, unanimous charges, head to wind; because the spinsterish herons, who keep their hair up with fish bones according to David Garnett, would fall down in a faint if a boy could stalk them and shout before he was seen; because the smoke from homesteads was a blue beard straying into heaven; because the stars were brighter in puddles than in the sky; because there were puddles, and leaky gutters, and dung hills with poppies on them; because the salmon in the rivers suddenly leaped and fell; because the chestnut buds, in the balmy wind of spring, would jump out of their twigs like jacks-in-boxes, or like little spectres holding up green hands to scare him; because the jackdaws, building, would hang in the air with branches in their mouths, more beautiful than any ark-returning dove; because, in the moonlight there below, God’s greatest blessing to the world was stretched, the silver gift of sleep.”
T.H. White




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