As seen on rj_anderson's blog:
Pick passages from five of your favorite books. The first book's passage should come from the fifth page, the second from the tenth, the third from the fifteenth, the fourth from the twentieth, and the fifth from the twenty-fifth. Do not give the titles and see if your flist guesses the books.
- Carruthers pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his coveralls. "The altar candlesticks and cross from the high altar and the Smiths' Chapel were saved by Provost Howard and the fire watch and taken to the police station. Also a silver paten and chalice, a wooden crucifix, a silver wafer box, the Epistles, the Gospels, and the regimental colors of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, Seventh Battalion," he read.
It matched the list in Provost Howard's account of the raid. "And not the bishop's bird stump," I said, surveying the rubble. "Which means it's here somewhere."
- My pager had delivered a disconcerting message; the unstealable had just been stolen. It was not the first time the Martin Chuzzlewit manuscript had been purloined. Two years before it had been removed from its case by a security man who wanted nothing more than to read the book in its pure and unsullied state. Unable to live with himself or decipher Dickens's handwriting past the third page, he eventually confessed and the manuscript was recovered. He spent five years sweating over lime kilns on the edge of Dartmoor.
(This is actually page 11, but page 10 is blank, so it is the 10th page of text. Yes, this is a flimsy rationalization, but I'm sticking with it, so there.)
The old man looked up quickly. "Not your fault, boy, not your fault. You were caught in the wheels of change and chance just like the rest of us. It was pure chance, that the assassin chose that particular poison to try and kill your father. He wasn't even aiming for your mother. You've done well despite it. We---we just expected too much of you, that's all. Let no one say you have not done well."
- "Oh, so am I," said Mr. Young, leaping gratefully onto this new ice floe in the bewildering stream of consciousness. Yes, you knew where you were with the Royals. The proper ones, of course, who pulled their weight in the hand-waving and bridge-opening department. Not the ones who went to discos all night long and were sick all over the paparazzi.*
"That's nice," said Sister Mary. "I thought you people weren't too keen on them, what with revoluting and throwing all those tea-sets into the river."
She chattered on, encouraged by the Order's instruction that members should always say what was on their minds. Mr. Young was out of his depth, and too tired now to worry about it very much.
*It is possibly with mentioning at this point that Mr. Young thought that paparazzi was a kind of Italian linoleum.
- Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine.
"It's one of the basic rules of breeding," she said. "You see it all the time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup --- "
At the moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was holding exploded in her hand. Shards of glass flew in every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered and blinked, her great ruddy face dripping.