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I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
Virginia Woolf
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Virginia Woolf
Age: 59 †
Born: 1882
Born: January 25
Died: 1941
Died: March 28
Author
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Feminist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Publisher
Short Story Writer
Writer
London
England
Virxhinia Ulf
Virginia yo juanito Adeline Woolf
Virg̔inyah Vold
Virdžiniâ Vulf
Virdzhiniia Vulf
Virzhinia Ulf
Virginia Stephen
Virzhin︠iia Ulf
Adeline Virginia Stephen
Virginyah Volf
Adeline Virginia Woolf
Virginia Adeline Woolf
Adeline Virginia Stephen Woolf
Birtzinia Gulph
Virginia Stephen Woolf
Woolf
Virginia
1882-1941
Locked
Innovation
Worse
Creativity
Perhaps
Creative
Thought
Unpleasant
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy.
Virginia Woolf
Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding and thought.
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Thus Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Douglas and Mr. Joyce partly spoil their books for women readers by their display of self-conscious virility and Mr. Hemingway, but much less violently, follows suit.
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But Sasha who after all had no English blood in her but was from Russia where the sunsets are longer, the dawns less sudden, and sentences often left unfinished from doubt as to how best to end them.
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Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
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The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
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I was so pleased and excited by your letter that I trotted about all day like a puppy with a bone.
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The cold stream of visual impressions failed him now as if the eye were a cup that overflowed and let the rest run down its china walls unrecorded.
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She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.
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Like all very handsome men who die tragically, he left not so much a character behind him as a legend. Youth and death shed a halo through which it is difficult to see a real face.
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It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.
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He looked very old. He looked, James thought, getting his head now against the Lighthouse, now against the waste of waters running away into the open, like some old stone lying on the sand he looked as if he had become physically what was always at the back of both of their minds-that loneliness which was for both of them the truth about things.
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And you wish to be a poet and you wish to be a lover.
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letters are venerable and the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps - who knows? - we might talk by the way.
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Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.
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But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
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There is a sadness at the back of life which some people do not attempt to mitigate. Entirely aware of their own standing in the shadow, and yet alive to every tremor and gleam of existence, there they endure.
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Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.
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In marriage a little licence, a little independence there must be between people living together day in and day out in the same house.
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Almost any biographer, if he respects facts, can give us much more than another fact to add to our collection. He can give us the creative fact the fertile fact the fact that suggests and engenders.
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