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Michaela

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Michaela’s Bookshelves

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Michaela is Currently Reading

Michaela is currently reading

Interesting Times (Discworld, #17)

by Terry Pratchett

bookshelves: currently-reading

Reading for the 2nd time

read in October 2018

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progress:

(page 168 of 342)
— Sep 17, 2025 12:09PM

Oct 08, 2018 05:28PM

Michaela is currently reading

The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition

by Fernando Pessoa

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(page 153 of 432)
— Oct 01, 2025 01:20PM

Aug 11, 2025 08:22AM

Michaela’s Quotes

“I found it all about as arousing as a Tupperware party.”
― Stephen Fry, The Fry Chronicles

10 likes

“We all commit our crimes. The thing is to not lie about them -- to try to understand what you have done, why you have done it. That way, you can begin to forgive yourself. That's very important. If you don't forgive yourself you'll never be able to forgive anybody else and you'll go on committing the same crimes forever.”
― James Baldwin, Another Country

134 likes

“But when we consider how small after all the cup of human enjoyment is, how soon overflowed with tears, how easily drained to the dregs in our quenchless thirst for infinity, we shall not blame ourselves for making so much of the tea-cup.”
― Kakuzō Okakura, The Book of Tea

tags: enjoyment, infinity, tea, tears

50 likes

“I shall introduce this city and its occupants as a series of objects whose relationship cannot be told with any certainty. Though violence may connect them, though pity, compassion, hope may marry one thing to another, still all that is in process cannot be judged, and that which has passed has gone beyond judgment, which leaves us again, with lives and belongings, places, shuttling here and there, hapless, benighted, discordant.”
― Jesse Ball, The Curfew

2 likes

“When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own