Haneen > Recent Status Updates

it is 10:08pm on a Saturday night, i’ve got a pounding headache, and instead of going to bed i am stress baking peanut butter cookies

because of *this*

Re-reading just to make sure I still hate it.

I have been stuck between chapter 15 and chapter 16 for two days. Every time I pick it up, instead of reading forward I find myself flipping through and rereading the many passages and proposals I’ve marked for my commonplace book. This book is so good, so delightful, so precisely exactly what I needed this week.

Last night I was lamenting to my roommate about how I was sad because I used to be a romantic and now I'm just jaded. She suggested I read a romantic book to help remedy that, so yeah, now I'm reading Paddington.

If this book doesn’t make me start a commonplace book, I don’t know what will.

“I paid a considerable amount of attention to this speech of his, in which I seemed to be leading man and most unhappy actor of a forthcoming melodrama.”

It’s delightful.

“This was the first sign of life I had seen in five days, and it couldn’t possibly contact me. All was indeed well.”

Tell me the question you've been wrestling for 3 years is "How do I become a functional member of society without creatively dying?" without telling me the question you've been wrestling for 3 years is "How do I become a functional member of society without creatively dying??"

My father told me I would get double points in our reading competition for reading "business nonfiction, or anything put out by Ramsey."

{Unnexpectedly skipping to book 10 in our chronology, rereading along with the Literary Life Podcast}

This already might be the best novel I read all year and it is only January 3rd.

"The word 'holoré' is also used to describe the scent of burned cookies, and is often applied to any potentially good thing that has turned sour. For example: When Foom realized he had forgotten to take his wife on the three-day vacation, the holiday was holoré."

These footnotes are too inexplicably perfect.

Literally every time I open up this book, someone else dies.

It has been a very long, dark, and confusing two-and-a-half years since I have read any Victorian literature; but I am now on page 92 of Gaskell after just three evenings, and I am wondering if perhaps I will finally be okay after all.

Andrew Peterson telling Sad Tree Stories is exactly what I didn't know I needed on this quiet Saturday morning

listening on audio while knitting tiny sheep into the cuff of a sock

"My knight?"

"Yes, your knight! Of course your knight! One cannot be a belle dame sans merci unless she crushes the soul of a gallant, wand'ring knight."

It is decided. This is my very favoritest novel.