AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

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AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby Liz » Sun Nov 17, 2013 10:08 pm

Noodlemantras, thanks to all of you who participated in ONBC’s 10th Birthday contest. It was a close race, but only three could take home a prize.

I give you the winners….

1st Place: Stroch

2nd Place: SnoopyDances

3rd Place: Nebraska


CONGRATULATIONS, NOODLEMANTRAS! :toastingpirates:



The Correct Answers are:



1. What author has a thing for lists?

Nick Hornby

2. In the book Shantaram, how does the bear escape?

He was disguised as Ganesha, the elephant-headed god, and smuggled out of the slum.

3. What are Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo searching for in Las Vegas? And what novel may this inspiration have come from?

The American Dream

The Great Gatsby


4. What book is this quote from and who said it? “And here, for the first time in my life I saw my beloved Mississippi River, dry in the summer haze, low water, with its big rank smell that smells like the raw body of America itself because it washes it up.”

On the Road

Sal Paradise


5. In what Johnny Depp movie does The Rum Diary book show up?

Secret Window

Image

6. What is the significance of the lotus tree in The Bomb in My Garden?

The plans and some components for Iran’s nuclear program are buried under the lotus tree in Dr. Obeidi’s garden. The lotus represents that which should not be known to man.

7. Cardinal Chang. Why “Cardinal?” Why “Chang?”

Cardinal: Because he wore a red leather topcoat

Chang: Because he had an injury where he was slashed over his eyes, resulting in “scars that crossed and then protruded out from the corners of each eyelid, as if a child’s caricature of a slant-eyed menacing Chinaman had been scrawled with a knife over his features.” NOTE: We weren’t expecting this exact quote, mentioning the slash was good enough.

This is not part of the answer, but if you're curious, Cardinal Chang was the protagonist in The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters


8. What was the original verbiage used in the one-liner on pg. 192 of The Thin Man, which was subsequently altered for later publications? What was it altered to?

Original: “Tell me something, Nick. Tell me the truth: when you were wrestling with Mimi, didn’t you have an erection?”

Revised: “…when you were wrestling Mimi, didn’t you get excited?”


9. How does the ending in Secret Window, Secret Garden by Stephen King differ from the ending in Secret Window?

In the book: Mort was killed before he could kill Amy.

In the movie: Mort murdered Amy and Ted.



Who or what?
Indicate the character or thing, and in what book.

1. She carried hideous, disturbing yellow flowers.


Margarita, The Master and Margarita

2. Their most prized books were by William Blake.

Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe, Just Kids

3. It’s used on guitar strings.

Dry Rosin, House of Earth

4. My dearest own you

The answer here was intended to be Simone de Beauvoir (A Transatlantic Love Affair) because that was how she talked all the time. However, more than one person viewed it as being Nelson Algren because they thought the question was asking “who was: My dearest own you?” So we gave credit for both Simone and Algren.

5. Early on he had two girlfriends, Deanna and Domini.

Damien Echols, Life After Death

6. His original name was Chandagnac. What did Davies rename him?

Jack Shandy, On Stranger Tides

7. It was the size of a doubloon, edged in black and filled in with red.

Esmeralda’s tattoo, The Price of Freedom

8. He blackmailed Bobby Dye.

Richie Stella, Loser’s Town

9. She went to Swarthmore. Some days she wore red lipstick, stiletto heels and silk stockings with that seductive line up the back of leg. Other days she was Audrey Hepburn in a boyish black turtleneck.

Pookie, Babylon Nights

10. He met her in camel country. She wore a long cotton gown. Her first words were, “You’re out of your cotton-picking mind.”

Domino, Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates

11. He has a good heart, likes champagne and a certain prostitute.

Joe, The Time of Your Life

12. He directed the 1902 French silent film, A Trip to the Moon.

Georges Méliès, The Invention of Hugo Cabret


5 and 10

1. Name 10 authors or actors that have been interviewed by ONBC.


Possible answers: Andrew Birkin, Bryan Burrough, Darlene Cates, Joanne Harris,Joseph Gangemi, Gordon Dahlquist, William J. Helmer, Garry Kilworth, Tim Powers, A.C. Crispin, Kathryn Leigh Scott & Jim Pierson, Nora Guthrie

2. Name 10 characters in Shantaram.

Possible answers: Lin, Prabaker, Karla, Diedier Levy, Modena, Qasim Ali Hussein, Madame Zhou, Khaderbhai, Khaled, Vikram Patel, Maurizio, Ulla, Lisa, Lettie, Kavita, Abdullah, Ajay, Parvati, Tariq, Johnny Cigar, Nazeer, Abdul Ghani, Madjid

3. Name 10 books in which Catholicism or Christianity plays a major role.

Possible answers: Perfume, Chocolat, Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, Wait Until Spring, Bandini, Ask the Dust, The Ginger Man, Good Omens, A Long Way Down, Just Kids, Life After Death, The Master and Margarita, The People’s Act of Love, Parallel Worlds, The Club Dumas, Just Kids, The Libertine, The Libertine, Dark Shadows: Return to Collinwood, I, Fatty

4. Name 10 ONBC books that were based on actual events AND people.

Possible answers: The Rum Diary, On the Road, J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys, The Libertine, Shantaram, I, Fatty, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Inamorata, The Ginger Man, The People’s Act of Love, The Bomb in My Garden, Wait Until Spring, Bandini, Ask the Dust, Life, Parallel Worlds, Life, Just Kids, House of Earth, Life After Death, Public Enemies, Dillinger, The Untold Story, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, A Transatlantic Love Affair, A Moveable Feast

5. What were your favorite books? Name 10 or less. There is no wrong answer for this, unless you leave it blank.

All answers are correct here. :-)
You can't judge a book by its cover.

The only thing that matters is the ending. It's the most important part of the story.

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby Theresa » Sun Nov 17, 2013 10:50 pm

:bounce: :applause2: Congratulations to the three winners-- stroch, SnoopyDances and nebraska!!

Just getting through this very difficult contest was a major accomplishment in itself!

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby SnoopyDances » Sun Nov 17, 2013 11:03 pm

:applause: :yahoo: :snoopydances:
Congrats Stroch and Nebraska!

And to everyone that participated. Well done. :applause2:

And a big thanks to Liz and Fireflydances for everything they bring to the ONBC! :kiss:

Looking forward to the next one! :biggrin:

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby nebraska » Sun Nov 17, 2013 11:45 pm

SnoopyDances wrote::applause: :yahoo: :snoopydances:
Congrats Stroch and Nebraska!

And to everyone that participated. Well done. :applause2:

And a big thanks to Liz and Fireflydances for everything they bring to the ONBC! :kiss:

Looking forward to the next one! :biggrin:

I knew I was in trouble as soon as Snoopy said she was going to do the contest! :banghead:
Congrats to the winners! It was a difficult quiz! And yes, congrats to everyone who tackled the challenge!

Just an off the wall question, did Simone and her sister attend a convent school? I thought I remembered that but after ten years many things fade and become tangled. I included Transatlantic Love Affair in the Catholic question for that reason but it was a shot in the dark and I am not sure I could find the answer even if I located my book.

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby Gilbert's Girl » Mon Nov 18, 2013 3:12 am

Congratulations ladies, well done. So what are the prizes?

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby stroch » Mon Nov 18, 2013 7:41 am

Thanks, and congratulations to Snoopy and nebraska -- it was a VERY tough test. I suspect the hand of fireflydances therein.

I am mortified at some of the answers I got wrong -- from books I have read more than once, I'm sorry to say. :banghead: Thanks for doing this!
I'll buy you the hat....a really big one.
St. Roch -- patron saint of pilgrims

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby nebraska » Mon Nov 18, 2013 8:11 am

stroch wrote:Thanks, and congratulations to Snoopy and nebraska -- it was a VERY tough test. I suspect the hand of fireflydances therein.

I am mortified at some of the answers I got wrong -- from books I have read more than once, I'm sorry to say. :banghead: Thanks for doing this!

Congratulations! :yahoo:

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby In-too-Depp » Mon Nov 18, 2013 9:03 am

Congratulations to stroch, Snoopy and nebraska! :applause2:
And Wit, was his vain frivolous pretence
Of pleasing others, at his own expense

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby RamblinRebel » Mon Nov 18, 2013 11:59 am

:applause2: :applause: Congratulations, stroch, SnoopyDances and nebraska!! :applause: :applause2:
That was one tough test covering A LOT of ground! Outstanding work, Noodlemantras!! :highfive:

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby moviemom » Mon Nov 18, 2013 1:38 pm

Congrats to Stroch, snoopydances, and nebraska! :congrats:

Well done, everyone! :applause2:
The year's no doubt, have changed me, sir. -- Sweeney Todd
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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby fireflydances » Mon Nov 18, 2013 4:19 pm

Daunting challenge!! Congrats to those that won and those that entered. All winners in my eyes.
"Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed and some few to be chewed and digested." Sir Francis Bacon, Of Studies

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby jruoss » Mon Nov 18, 2013 5:48 pm

I was not a participant, but I don't think I ever noticed the copy of "The Rum Diary" in Secret Window before. Makes me think every non-Mort book in the movie was likely chosen by Mr. Bibliophile Depp... (I wonder how many cases of that there are throughout the Depp canon?) Also, I'm now curious about Mort's fate in the book...
"I feel I am good sitting on a beach with a breeze going by, the waves hitting the beach."
"I've got a lot of Barbies in storage..."
"The Mad Hatter is the Mad Hatter. What am I going to do, play him like Lee Majors?"

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby fireflydances » Mon Nov 18, 2013 9:44 pm

I think the fact that we deliberately select books that we know JD has also selected is one of the attractions. You begin reading JD's books and sooner or later you figure out they're all sort of connected in a weird way, a funny way. He's a funny guy, you know :)

You should join us sometime. It's always an interesting ride so to speak. :biggrin:
"Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed and some few to be chewed and digested." Sir Francis Bacon, Of Studies

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby Liz » Tue Nov 19, 2013 11:47 pm

jruoss wrote: Also, I'm now curious about Mort's fate in the book...

Check out the last part before the Epilogue. I apologize for the strange line breaks:



Amy tried the door and found it unlocked. She stepped in, started to call for Mort, and then didn't. She
looked around, wide-eyed and startled.
The place was a mess. The trash can was full and had overflowed onto the floor. A few sluggish autumn
flies were crawling in and out of an aluminum pot-pie dish that had been kicked into the corner. She could
smell stale cooking and musty air. She thought she could even smell spoiled food.
'Mort?'
There was no answer. She walked further into the house, taking small steps, not entirely sure she wanted to
look at the rest of the place. Mrs Gavin had been in only three days ago - how had things gotten so out of
hand since then? What had happened?
She had been worried about Mort during the entire last year of their marriage, but she had been even more
worried since the divorce. Worried, and, of course, guilty. She held part of the blame for herself. and
supposed she always would. But Mort had never been strong ... and his greatest weakness was his stubborn
(and sometimes almost hysterical) refusal to recognize the fact. This morning he had sounded like a man on
the point of suicide. And the only reason she had heeded his admonition not to bring Ted was because she
thought the sight of him might set Mort off if he really was poised on the edge of such an act.
The thought of murder had never crossed her mind, nor did it do so now. Even when he had brandished the
gun at them that horrible afternoon at the motel, she had not been afraid. Not of that. Mort was no killer.
'Mort? M -'
She came around the kitchen counter and the word died. She stared at the big living room with wide,
stunned eyes. Paper was littered everywhere. It looked as if Mort must at some point have exhumed every copy of every manuscript he had in his desk drawers and in his files and strewn the pages about in here like
confetti at some black New Year's Eve celebration. The table was heaped with dirty dishes. The Silex was
lying shattered on the floor by the window-wall, which was cracked.
And everywhere, everywhere, everywhere was one word. The word was SHOOTER.
SHOOTER had been written on the walls in colored chalks he must have taken from her drawer of art
supplies. SHOOTER was sprayed on the window twice in what looked like dried whipped cream - and yes,
there was the Redi-Whip pressure-can, lying discarded under the stove. SHOOTER was written over and
over on the kitchen counters in ink, and on the wooden support posts of the deck on the far side of the
house in pencil - a neat column like adding that went down in a straight line and said SHOOTER
SHOOTER SHOOTER SHOOTER.
Worst of all, it had been carved into the polished cherrywood surface of the table in great jagged letters
three feet high, like a grotesque declaration of love: SHOOTER.
The screwdriver he had used to do this last was lying on a chair nearby. There was red stuff There was red stuff on its steel
shaft - stain from the cherrywood, she assumed.
'Mort?' she whispered, looking around.
Now she was frightened that she would find him dead by his own hand. And where? Why, in his study, of
course. Where else? He had lived all the most important parts of his life in there; surely he had chosen to
die there.
Although she had no wish to go in, no wish to be the one to find him, her feet carried her in that direction
all the same. As she went, she kicked the issue of EQMM Herb Creekmore had had sent out of her way.
She did not look down. She reached the study door and pushed it slowly open.
48
Mort stood in front of his old Royal typewriter; the screen-and-keyboard unit of his word processor lay
overturned in a bouquet of glass on the floor. He looked strangely like a country preacher. It was partly the
posture he had adopted, she supposed; he was standing almost primly with his hands behind his back. But
most of it was the hat. The black hat, pulled down so it almost touched the tops of his ears. She thought he
looked a little bit like the old man in that picture, 'American Gothic,' even though the man in the picture
wasn't wearing a hat.
'Mort?' she asked. Her voice was weak and uncertain.
He made no reply, only stared at her. His eyes were grim and glittering. She had never seen Mort's eyes
look this way, not even on the horrible afternoon at the motel. It was almost as if this was not Mort at all,
but some stranger who looked like Mort.
She recognized the hat, though.
'Where did you find that old thing? The attic?' Her heartbeat was in her voice, making it stagger.
He must have found it in the attic. The smell of mothballs on it was strong, even from where she was
standing. Mort had gotten the hat years ago, at a gift shop in Pennsylvania. They had been travelling
through Amish country. She had kept a little garden at the Derry house, in the angle where the house and
the study addition met. It was her garden, but Mort often went out to weed it when he was stuck for an idea.
He usually wore the hat when he did this. He called it his thinking cap. She remembered him looking at himself in a mirror once when he was wearing it and joking that he ought to have a bookjacket photo taken
in it. 'When I put this on,' he'd said, 'I look like a
man who belongs out in the north forty, walking plow-furrows behind a mule's ass.'
Then the hat had disappeared. It must have migrated down here and been stored. But...
'It's my hat,' he said at last in a rusty, bemused voice. 'Wasn't ever anybody else's.'
'Mort? What's wrong? What's

'You got you a wrong number, woman. Ain't no Mort here. Mort's dead.' The gimlet eyes never wavered.
'He did a lot of squirming around, but in the end he couldn't lie to himself anymore, let alone to me. I never
put a hand on him, Mrs Rainey. I swear. He took the coward's way out.'
'Why are you talking that way?' Amy asked.
'This is just the way I talk,' he said with mild surprise. 'Everybody down in Miss'ippi talks this way.'
'Mort, stop!'
'Don't you understand what I said?' he asked. 'You ain't deaf, are you? He's dead. He killed himself.'
'Stop it, Mort,' she said, beginning to cry. 'You're scaring me, and I don't like it.'
'Don't matter,' he said. He took his hands out from behind his back. In one of them he held the scissors from
the top drawer of the desk. He raised them. The sun had come out, and it sent a starfish glitter along the
blades as he snicked them open and then closed. 'You won't be scared long.' He began walking toward her.
49
For a moment she stood where she was. Mort would not kill her; if there had been killing in Mort, then
surely he would have done some that day at the motel.
Then she saw the look in his eyes and understood that Mort knew that, too.
But this wasn't him.
She screamed and wheeled around and lunged for the door.
Shooter came after her, bringing the scissors down in a silver arc. He would have buried them up to the
handles between her shoulderblades if his feet had not slid on the papers scattered about the hardwood
floor. He fell full-length with a cry of mingled perplexity and anger. The blades stabbed down through page
nine of 'Secret Window, Secret Garden' and the tips broke off. His mouth struck the floor and sprayed
blood. The package of Pall Malls - the brand John Kintner had silently smoked during the breaks halfway
through the writing class he and Mort Rainey had shared - shot out of his pocket and slid along the slick
wood like the weight in a barroom shuffleboard game. He got up on his knees, his mouth snarling and
smiling through the blood which ran over his lips and teeth.
'Won't do you no help, Mrs Rainey!' he cried, getting to his feet. He looked at the scissors, snicked them
open to study the blunted tips a little better, and then tossed them impatiently aside. 'I got a place in the
garden for you! I got it all picked out. You mind me, now!' He ran out the door after her. Halfway across the living room, Amy took her own spill. One of her feet came down on the discarded issue
of EQMM and she fell sprawling on her side, hurting her hip and right breast. She cried out.
Behind her, Shooter ran across to the table and snatched up the screwdriver he had used on the cat.
'Stay right there, and be still,' he said as she turned over on her back and stared at him with wide eyes which
looked almost drugged. 'If you move around, I'm only goin to hurt you before it's over. I don't want to hurt
you, missus, but I will if I have to. I've got to have something, you see. I have come all this way, and I've
got to have something for my trouble.'
As he approached, Amy propped herself up on her elbows and shoved herself backward with her feet. Her
hair hung in her face. Her skin was coated with sweat; she could smell it pouring out of her, hot and
stinking. The face above her was the solemn, judgmental face of insanity.
'No, Mort! Please! Please, Mort
He flung himself at her, raising the screwdriver over his head and then bringing it down. Amy shrieked and
rolled to the left. Pain burned a line across her hip as the screwdriver blade tore her dress and grooved her
flesh. Then she was scrambling to her knees, hearing and feeling the dress shred out a long unwinding strip
as she did it.
'No, ma'am,' Shooter panted. His hand closed upon her ankle. 'No, ma'am.' She looked over her shoulder
and through the tangles of her hair and saw he was using his other hand to work the screwdriver out of the
floor. The round-crowned black hat sat askew on his head.
He yanked the screwdriver free and drove it into her right calf.
The pain was horrid. The pain was the whole world. She screamed and kicked backward, connecting with
his nose, breaking it. Shooter grunted and fell on his side, clutching at his face, and Amy got to her feet.
She could hear a woman howling. It sounded like a dog howling at the moon. She supposed it wasn't a dog.
She supposed it was her.
Shooter was getting to his feet. His lower face was a mask of blood. The mask split open, showing Mort
Rainey's crooked front teeth. She could remember licking across those teeth with her tongue.
'Feisty one, ain't you?' he said, grinning. 'That's all right, ma'am. You go right on.'
He lunged for her.
Amy staggered backward. The screwdriver fell out of her calf and rolled across the floor. Shooter glanced
at it, then lunged at her again, almost playfully. Amy grabbed one of the living-room chairs and dumped it
in front of him. For a moment they only stared at each other over it . and then he snatched for the front of
her dress. Amy recoiled.
'I'm about done fussin with you,' he panted.
Amy turned and bolted for the door.

He was after her at once, flailing at her back, his fingertips skating skidding down the nape of her neck,
trying to close on the top of the dress, catching it, then just missing the hold which would have coiled her
back to him for good.
Amy bolted past the kitchen counter and toward the back door. Her right loafer squelched and smooched on
her foot. It was full of blood. Shooter was after her, puffing and blowing bubbles of blood from his nostrils,
clutching at her.
She struck the screen door with her hands, then tripped and fell full-length on the porch, the breath
whooshing out of her. She fell exactly where Shooter had left his manuscript. She rolled over and saw him
coming. He only had his bare hands now, but they looked like they would be more than enough. His eyes
were stern and unflinching and horribly kind beneath the brim of the black hat.
'I am so sorry, missus,' he said.
'Rainey!' a voice cried. 'Stop!'
She tried to look around and could not. She had strained something in her neck. Shooter never even tried.
He simply came on toward her.
'Rainey! Stop!'
'There is no Rainey h -' Shooter began, and then a gunshot rapped briskly across the fall air. Shooter
stopped where he was, and looked curiously, almost casually, down at his chest. There was a small hole
there. No blood issued from it - at least, not at first - but the hole was there. He put his hand to it, then
brought it away. His index finger was marked by a small dot of blood. It looked like a bit of punctuation -
the kind which ends a sentence. He looked at this thoughtfully. Then he dropped his hands and looked at
Amy.
'Babe?' he asked, and then fell full-length beside her on the porch boards.
She rolled over, managed to get up on her elbows, and crawled to where he lay, beginning to sob.
'Mort?' she cried. 'Mort? Please, Mort, try to say something!'
But he was not going to say anything, and after a moment she let this realization fill her up. She would
reject the simple fact of his death again and again over the next few weeks and months, and would then
weaken, and the realization would fill her up again. He was dead. He was dead. He had gone crazy down
here and he was dead.
He, and whoever had been inside him at the end.
She put her head down on his chest and wept, and when someone came up behind her and put a comforting
hand on her shoulder, Amy did not look around.


For the Epilogue (which is also interesting) see the entire story online. This is how I read my first ONBC book. I printed it out :lol: :

You can't judge a book by its cover.

The only thing that matters is the ending. It's the most important part of the story.

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Re: AND THE PRIZES GO TO.......

Unread postby Liz » Tue Nov 19, 2013 11:49 pm

Gilbert's Girl wrote:Congratulations ladies, well done. So what are the prizes?

If everyone has received their prizes then we can tell. Those who have not acknowledged receipt, please let me know.
You can't judge a book by its cover.

The only thing that matters is the ending. It's the most important part of the story.


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