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I read the book of Job last night, I don't think God comes out well in it.

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
Comes
Night
Wells
Witty
Book
Lasts
Well
Last
Think
Religion
Thinking
Read
Jobs

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It is useless to read Greek in translation translators can but offer us a vague equivalent.
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Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.
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Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.
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Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.
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Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.
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One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
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Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
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Then may I tell you that the very next words I read were these – ‘Chloe liked Olivia…’ Do not start. Do not blush. Let us admit in the privacy of our own society that these things sometimes happen. Sometimes women do like women.
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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.
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But words have been used too often touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.
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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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At 46 one must be a miser only have time for essentials.
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Women have sat indoors all these millions of years, so that by this time the very walls are permeated by their creative force, which has, indeed, so overcharged the capacity of bricks and mortar that it must needs harness itself to pens and brushes and business and politics.
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Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day
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I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.
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Most of a modest woman's life was spent, after all, in denying what, in one day at least of every year, was made obvious.
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Oh, I am in love with life!
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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 far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
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It is no use trying to sum people up.
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