books: is there anything they can't do?

On all fours, inching through a cascade of blood, he began crawling back toward the stomach.

Meg, by Steve Alten:

Jonas adjusted his midwing, decreasing his angle of descent. He hovered twenty feet above the seabed and slowed, waiting for D.J. Spread out below him were row upon row of giant clams, pure white and glowing, each over a foot in diameter. There were thousands of them, lying in formation around the [geothermal] vents as if worshipping their god.

Synopsis: Men swear at a giant prehistoric shark, who eats them with a merry chomp. Then the author realizes he can't let the shark win, and the hero gets to bunny-hop his tiny submersible across the surface of the Pacific.

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books: is there anything they can't do?

I'm pro-rivermonster and I vote.

Blackwater I: The Flood, by Michael McDowell:

Elinor wasn't Oscar's only mystery, of course. There were many things Oscar didn't understand. He didn't understand what was going on between Mary-Love and Elinor; he only knew that he was glad he wasn't at home all day the way Sister was. He didn't know what Elinor saw in him; he didn't know why she loved him, though apparently she did. He'd get up at five in the morning, and stand at his bedroom window and look out at the Perdido. There he'd see his wife, wearing her coarse cotton nightgown, swimming around and around in the swift water that would've drowned any normal person.

Synopsis: My comfort chick-lit, in which the heroine is a rivermonster and the river eats small children. Ymmv.

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TP: the arm is watching you.

I tried to lift spirits with Flanders and Swann's hippopotamus song

Eat, Sleep, Ride: How I Braved Bears, Badlands and Big Breakfasts in My Quest to Cycle the Tour Divide:

On closer inspection the town consisted of no more than a crossroads, the branches of which were populated by half a dozen motels, a couple of diners, a post office and two gas stations with convenience stores attached. And JR's Taxidermy Studios ('Mounts on Show!'); just as long as they hadn't taken to stuffing cyclists. It ill behoves (sic) a rider on the Tour Divide to moan about such a broad array, but somehow Lincoln's practical benefits were outweighed by its sombre ambiance. The forest seemed to have thickened again and its tentacles had enveloped the town.

Synopsis: Paul Howard really wants to be Bill Bryson, and disdains fat people, Americans and hippies. But he did ride 2,800 miles on his bike once.

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