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Let a man get up and say, Behold, this is the truth, and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background. Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.

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
Pieces
Background
Truth
Backgrounds
Look
Fish
Looks
Fishes
Men
Perceive
Sandy
Cat
Behold
Forgotten
Instantly
Piece
Surfing

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Above all you must illumine your own soul with its profundities and its shallows, and its vanities and its generosities, and say what your beauty means to you or your plainness, and what is your relation to the ever-changing and turning world.
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And you wish to be a poet and you wish to be a lover.
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How remorseless life is!
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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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But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
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Tell me, he wanted to say, everything in the whole world - for he had the wildest, most absurd, extravagant ideas about poets and poetry - but how to speak to a man who does not see you? who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depth of the sea instead?
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Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.
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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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. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.
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Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.
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The truer the facts the better the fiction.
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Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
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Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
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But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
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It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.
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The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
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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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Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black, halfway down, in the darkness, in the shaft which ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhaps a tear formed a tear fell the waves swayed this way and that, received it, and were at rest. Never did anybody look so sad.
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How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.
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No one would think of bringing a dog into church. For though a dog is all very well on a gravel path, and shows no disrespect to flowers, the way he wanders down an aisle, looking, lifting a paw, and approaching a pillar with a purpose that makes the blood run cold with horror ... a dog destroys the service completely.
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