Ness Kingsley

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Ness Kingsley

Goodreads Author

The United Kingdom


Rosemary Sutcliff, Richmal Crompton, Georgette Heyer, Sir Walter Scott

Member Since
October 2013


Ness Kingsley is a Christian, a writer, a reader and a blogger (amongst other things). She enjoys spending a preposterous amount of time discussing the weather.

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Ness Kingsley There *is* a plan for a third Our Intrepid Heroine. I even have a name and a sort of plot prepared - there is going to be a dragon, I can tell you…moreThere *is* a plan for a third Our Intrepid Heroine. I even have a name and a sort of plot prepared - there is going to be a dragon, I can tell you that for certain. A very unusual dragon ...(less)
Ness Kingsley Yes! Either late June or July. I'm excited for this one - it's longer, with a greater cast of characters and a very reluctant Intrepid Heroine (poor…moreYes! Either late June or July. I'm excited for this one - it's longer, with a greater cast of characters and a very reluctant Intrepid Heroine (poor girl!).(less)
Average rating: 4.61 · 28 ratings · 12 reviews · 3 distinct works
Our Intrepid Heroine

4.43 avg rating — 14 ratings — published 2014 — 2 editions
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Our Accidental Adventure

4.75 avg rating — 8 ratings — published 2015
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The Curse of Cackling Meadows

4.83 avg rating — 6 ratings — published 2015
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* Note: these are all the books on Goodreads for this author. To add more, click here.

So. I’ve been going to the cinema a lot recently. I’ll spare you my rant on the insane cost of popcorn (Seriously. It costs about an arm, a leg, and an ovary AND I’M NOT EVEN EXAGGERATING [much]) and my opinions on how IMAX is amazing and AV-whatever-the-other-letter-is is a WASTE OF SPACE, TIME, AND MONEY, and cut to the chase – I’ve been watching movies, and I’ve decided to write about them.

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Published on June 24, 2018 18:25 • 1 view
Our Intrepid Heroine The Curse of Cackling Meadows
(2 books)
4.55 avg rating — 20 ratings

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Masque by W.R. Gingell
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Where The River Begins by Patricia St. John
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The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley
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China by John Keay
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I did it. Phew!
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The Rape of Nanking by Iris Chang
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This. Happened.
Angela R. Watts
Angela R. Watts added a status update: Today, my brother asked my 2 yr old niece, Laney, what she wants to be when she grows up. She wants to be a cow.
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My Plain Jane by Cynthia Hand
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More of Ness's books…
“Toads are to dragons what carrots are to unicorns.”
Ness Kingsley, The Curse of Cackling Meadows

“Out of all the things you would expect when facing a dragon, silence was not on the list.

Roaring? Certainly!

Snarling? Why, yes - of course!

Fire-breathing? Couldn’t possibly do without it. Wouldn’t feel right if it wasn’t there.

But silence?

No. Definitely not.

It was as out of place as a potter at a blacksmith’s.”
Ness Kingsley, The Curse of Cackling Meadows

“There a dozen ways to skin a cat. All of them are illegal.”
Ness Kingsley, The Curse of Cackling Meadows

“ Readin' all those books makes me wonder whether
anyone ever dies natural."

" They don't," said William mysteriously. " Robert
says so. At least he says there's hundreds an' thousands
of murders what no one finds out. You see, you c'n
only find out a person's died nacheral by cuttin' 'em
up an' they've not got time to cut everyone up what
dies. They've simply not got the time. They do
it like what they do with our desks at school. They
jus' open one sometimes to see if it's all right. They've
not got time to open 'em all every day. An' same as
every time they do open a desk they find it untidy, jus'
in the same way whenever they do cut anyone dead
up they find he's been poisoned. Practically always.
Robert says so. He says that the amount of people
who poison people who aren't cut up and don't get
found out mus' be enormous. Jus' think of it. People
pois'nin' people all over the place an' no one findin' out.

If I was a policeman I'd cut everyone dead up.
But they aren't any use, policemen aren't. Why, in
all those books I've read there hasn't been a single
policeman that was any good at all. They simply
don't know what to do when anyone murders anyone.
Why, you remember in ' The Mystery of the Yellow
Windows,' the policemen were s' posed to have searched
the room for clues an' they di'n't notice the cigarette
end what the murd'rer had left in the fender and what
had the address of the people what made it on it an'
what was a sort they made special for him. Well,
that shows you what the policemen are, dun't it ? I
mean, they look very swanky in their hats an' buttons
an' all that, but when it comes to a murder or cuttin'
dead people up or findin' out murd'rers, they aren't
any good at all. Why, in all those myst'ry tales we've
read, it's not been the police that found the murd'rers
at all. It's been ordinary people same as you an' me
jus' usin' common sense an' pickin' up cigarette ends
an' such-like. . . . Tell you what it is," he said, warm-
ing to his theme, " policemen have gotter be stupid
'cause of their clothes. I mean, all the policemen's
clothes are made so big that they've gotter be very
big men to fit 'em an' big men are always stupid 'cause
of their strength all goin' to their bodies 'stead of their
brains. That stands to reason, dun't it ? ”
Richmal Crompton
tags: humor

“ Let's be detectives when we grow up," suggested Douglas.

" No," said William. " It's more fun bein' the man that comes along an' finds out all about it when the detectives have stopped tryin'. I'm goin to be one of that sort. I'm goin' to go on readin' myst'ry tales all the time from now till I'm grown up an' then I bet there won't be any way of killin' folks that I won't know all about so I'll be able to catch all the murd'rers there are an' I bet I'll be famous an' they'll put up a stachoo to me when I'm dead."

" I bet they won't," said Ginger, irritated by William's egotism. " You'll prob'ly get murdered yourself before you've tound out anythin' at all an' then Douglas an' Henry an' me' 11 find out who did it an' get famous.”
Richmal Crompton, William
tags: humor

“I am convinced that poets are toddlers in a cathedral, slobbering on wooden blocks and piling them up in the light of the stained glass. We can hardly make anything beautiful that wasn’t beautiful in the first place. We aren’t writers, but gleeful rearrangers of words whose meanings we can’t begin to know. When we manage to make something pretty, it’s only so because we are ourselves a flourish on a greater canvas. That means there’s no end to the discovery. We may crawl around the cathedral floor for ages before we grow up enough to reach the doorknob and walk outside into a garden of delights. Beyond that, the city, then the rolling hills, then the sea. And when the world of every cell has been limned and painted and sung, we lie back on the grass, satisfied that our work is done. Then, of course, the sun sets and we see above us the dark dome of glittering stars.

On and on it goes, all the way to the lightless borderlands of time and space, which we come to discover in some future age are but the beginnings or endings of a single word spoken from the mouth of God. Some nights, while I traipse down the hill, I imagine that word isn’t a word at all, but a burst of laughter.”
Andrew Peterson

“I don't see why you two can't get along."
"It is a personality issue," Rathenridge muttered.
Dentin looked at him. No emotion, no reaction, simply bland observation. "Yours?”
Rachel Rossano, Duty

“Now then, thought I, unconsciously rolling up the sleeve of my frock, here goes for a cool, collected dive at death and destruction, and the devil fetch the hindmost.”
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick or, The Whale

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