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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.

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
Feelings
Watched
Live
Perpetual
Even
Sea
Always
Dangerous
Alone
Feeling
Cabs
Happiness
Cab
Sense
Taxi

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to write a novel in the heart of London is next to an impossibility. I feel as if I were nailing a flag to the top of a mast in a raging gale.
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It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly.
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As for 'drawing you out,' please believe I don't do such things deliberately, with an object -- It's only that I am, as a rule, far more interested in people than they are in me -- But it makes me a nuisance, I know: only an innocent nuisance.
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There can be no two opinions as to what a highbrow is. He is the man or woman of thoroughbred intelligence who rides his mind at a gallop across country in pursuit of an idea.
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Lines slip easily down the accustomed grooves. The old designs are copied so glibly that we are half inclined to think them original, save for that very glibness.
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I must try to set aside half an hour in some part of my day, and consecrate it to diary writing. Give it a name and a place, and then perhaps, such is the human mind, I shall come to think it a duty, and disregard other duties for it.
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This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room.
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So I have to create the whole thing afresh for myself each time. Probably all writers now are in the same boat. It is the penalty we pay for breaking with tradition, and the solitude makes the writing more exciting though the being read less so. One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with ones words.
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Once you begin to take yourself seriously as a leader or as a follower, as a modern or as a conservative, then you become a self-conscious, biting, and scratching little animal whose work is not of the slightest value or importance to anybody.
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Happily, at forty-six I still feel as experimental and on the verge of getting at the truth as ever.
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Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
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A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one
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It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
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It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life.
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In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge in the bellow and uproar the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging brass bands barrel organs in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved life London this moment in June.
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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.
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Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
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One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.
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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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