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For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
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
Time
Streets
Thousand
Harley
Alone
Specialist
Year
Specialists
Understand
Thirteen
Body
Combination
Mind
Slave
Years
Street
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
Style is a very simple matter it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words.
Virginia Woolf
No passion is stronger in the breast of man than the desire to make others believe as he believes
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Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
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The streets of London have their map, but our passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?
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How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.
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Language is wine upon the lips.
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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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On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.
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Talents of the novelist: ... observation of character, analysis of emotion, people's feelings, personal relations.
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And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
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Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
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I read the book of Job last night, I don't think God comes out well in it.
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Dance music ... stirs some barbaric instinct - lulled asleep in our sober lives - you forget centuries of civilization in a second, & yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
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I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.
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Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
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Now the writer, I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of ... reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us.
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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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I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens.
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Art is not a copy of the real world one of the damn things is enough.
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Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!
Virginia Woolf