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Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.
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
Lying
Life
Tissue
Tissues
Deceit
Vanity
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
war is a man's game ... the killing machine has a gender and it is male.
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For women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places.
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Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.
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Henry James seems most entirely in his element, doing that is to say what everything favors his doing, when it is a question of recollection. The mellow light which swims over the past, the beauty which suffuses even the commonest little figures of that
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A light here required a shadow there.
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She was like a crinkled poppy with the desire to drink dry dust.
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Though we see the same world, we see it through different eyes. Any help we can give you must be different from that you can give yourselves, and perhaps the value of that help may lie in the fact of that difference.
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There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.
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Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.
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We [women] have borne and bred and washed and taught, perhaps to the age of six or seven years, the one thousand six hundred and twenty-three million human beings who are, according to statistics, at present in existence, and that ... takes time.
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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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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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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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I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.
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Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.
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Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.
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Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
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One must learn to be silent just as one must learn to talk.
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People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.
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A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.
Virginia Woolf