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Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
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
Full
True
Best
Writing
Delicious
Prose
Poetry
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
There was a serenity about him always that had the look of innocence, when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.
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Soup is cuisines kindest course
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He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
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Women alone stir my imagination.
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Submit to me. So she said nothing, but looked doggedly and sadly at the shore, wrapped in its mantle of peace as if the people there had fallen alseep, she thought were free like smoke, were free to come and go like ghosts. They have no suffering there, she thought.
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The root of things, what they were all afraid of saying, was that happiness is dirt cheap. You can have it for nothing. Beauty.
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Books are the mirrors of the soul.
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Why does Samuel Butler say, 'Wise men never say what they think of women'? Wise men never say anything else apparently.
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One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.
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And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is a woman's whole existence.
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He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.
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How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.
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Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall
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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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To survive, each sentence must have, at its heart, a little spark of fire, and this, whatever the risk, the novelist must pluck with his own hands from the blaze.
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These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.
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I need not hate any man he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man he has nothing to give me.
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I find that when I've seen a certain number of people my mind becomes like an old match box -- the part one strikes on, I mean.
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The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
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Boredom is the legitimate kingdom of the philanthropic.
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