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The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mould of the body and mind entire.
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
Essence
Poet
Gives
Takes
Body
Mould
Giving
Mold
Mind
Prose
Entire
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
Virginia Woolf
He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.
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But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
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Love had a thousand shapes.
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It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
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Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.
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The thing about Proust is his combination of the utmost sensibility with the utmost tenacity. He searches out these butterfly shades to the last grain. He is as tough as catgut and as evanescent as a butterfly's bloom.
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One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
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No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
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For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.
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I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.
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There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.
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But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
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We agreed that people are now afraid of the English language. He [T.S. Eliot] said it came of being bookish, but not reading books enough. One should read all styles thoroughly.
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Nothing shakes my opinion of a book. Nothing -- nothing. Only perhaps if it's the book of a young person -- or of a friend -- no, even so, I think myself infallible.
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What is a woman? I assure you, I do not know ... I do not believe that anybody can know until she has expressed herself in all the arts and professions open to human skill.
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But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came.
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I'm fundamentally, I think, an outsider. I do my best work and feel most braced with my back to the wall. It's an odd feeling though, writing aginst the current: difficult entirely to disregard the current. Yet of course I shall.
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If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of utmost importance very various heroic and mean splendid and sordid infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme as great as a man some think even greater.
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