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recheat,
He wanted to lean his head down and rub his cheek back and forth against her hand like a cat.
In one huge leather-gloved fist Jollyby held up a large, madly kicking hare by its ears. “Son of a bitch,” Dauntless said. “He caught it.” Dauntless was a talking horse. She just didn’t talk much.
Morgan Downs
Julia showed him how to extract cash without a card from an ATM at a bug-swarmed gas station.
He could feel himself regressing in the direction of an adolescent tantrum—it was like trying to talk to his parents. He lost all perspective on who he was and how far he’d come.
Half the time a character or two got cut off along the way, and the entire frame got thrown off, and you ended up with nothing. Noise, static, snow crash.
He would have to be that person, the stable, reliable person, the one who had his shit together, for both of them. They could either do this together or separately, except they had to do this together, because he was out of leads and she was very nearly out of her mind. It wasn’t a particularly glamorous role—it wasn’t the Bingle role—but it was his role. It was time he accepted it.
Free Trader Beowulf—you had to be at least forty and a recovering pen-and-paper role-playing-gamer to get the reference,
Thomas had been simply mad with excitement when he heard the news. Weren’t all his friends at school jealous! Of course now he had all new friends, because before he’d been in London, and now they were in Cornwall. But his friends here were much nicer, and he only missed London when he thought about the Rainforest Life exhibit at the zoo. Had Quentin ever been to the zoo in London? If he could choose, would he be an Asian lion or a Sumatran tiger? And did he know that there was a monkey called a red titi monkey? It wasn’t rude, you could say it because it was a real kind of monkey. And didn’t
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There’s your proof, Mr. Hofstadter: I am a strange loop.
not-so-cunning linguist,
“Hello Circe,” he said. “I’m Pouncy Silverkitten. Welcome home.”
He had at last come into his own. Maybe all he’d needed was Ember’s permission. You have to have faith.
Turns out you can cast some truly amazing shit in your dreams. But after you wake up it all seems kind of pointless, and nobody really wants to hear about it.
be proved otherwise,
Plus somebody was stealing their hubcaps. Asmo thought it must be a local trickster-deity called Reynard the Fox. He was supposed to be some kind of anti-gentry, anti-clerical hero of the peasantry, but she just considered Him a pain in the ass.
A sloth knows only peace, nothing else.”
“In a way”—she said, as she licked and clawed—“we sloths are like . . . small worlds . . . unto ourselves.” Nobody could wait out a pause like a sloth. Or survive on less conversational encouragement. He wondered if to a sloth the human world appeared to move past at blinding, flickering speed—if humans looked twitchy and sped-up to her, the same way the sloth looked slowed-down to Quentin. “There is a species of algae,” she said, “that grows only . . . in sloth fur. It accounts for our unique . . . greenish tint. The algae helps us blend in with the leaves. But it also serves . . . to nourish
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I don’t want to be the asshole.
The fox-god barked loudly when He came. She felt it. The terrible, unspeakable thing, which she would never tell anybody, not even herself, was that it felt wonderful.
Then Eliot hugged him, a long hug, and when he was done he kissed Quentin on the mouth. That Quentin felt.
