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There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.
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
Much
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Breast
Make
Fashion
Brains
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Tongue
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May
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I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.
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I grow numb I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?
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But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
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Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?
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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
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Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.
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It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
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and even a tea party means apprehension, breakage
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it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
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For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.
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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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Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
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But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.
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Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them.
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As a woman, I have no country
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The intellect, divine as it is, and all worshipful, has a habit of lodging in the most seedy of carcasses, and often, alas, acts the cannibal among the other faculties so that often, where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.
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To stand in a great bookshop crammed with books so new that their pages almost stick together, and the gilt on their backs is still fresh, has an excitement no less delightful than the old excitement of the second-hand bookstall.
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The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.
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