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When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.

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
Skins
Senses
Shriveled
Medicine
Soma
Ordinary
Amazingly
Meaning
Satisfies
Philosophy
Banality
Body
Stuffed
Skin

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I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual
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She was like a crinkled poppy with the desire to drink dry dust.
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First a warning, musical then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.
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A biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many as a thousand.
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To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is...at last, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away.
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I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists the reality of everything.
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If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.
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For such will be our ruin if you, in the immensity of your public abstractions, forget the private figure, or if we in the intensity of our private emotions forget the public world. Both houses will be ruined, the public and the private, the material and the spiritual, for they are inseparably connected.
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Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)
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The sigh of all the seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed them the night wrapped them nothing broke their sleep, until, the birds beginning and the dawn weaving their thin voices in to its whiteness
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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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Books should stand on their own feet ... If they need shoring up by a preface here, an introduction there, they have no more right to exist than a table that needs a wad of paper under one leg in order to stand steady.
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But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
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The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.
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You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.
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And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
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She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.
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How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?
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When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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