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For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

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
Writing
Wind
Controls
Heart
Seem
Winds
Every
Cases
Proved
Pierces
Would
Write
Pens
Fibre
Seems
Thread
Threads
Persons
Nerves
Pierce
Person
Fingers
Liver
Whole
Case
Nerve

More quotes by Virginia Woolf

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As for my next book, I won't write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.
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If we didn't live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I've no doubt but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.
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Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.
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It doesn't have to be the truth, just your vision of it, written down.
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At 46 one must be a miser only have time for essentials.
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A biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many as a thousand.
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I feel certain that I'm going mad again, I feel we can't go thru another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices
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With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
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Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
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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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I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.
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Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.
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We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.
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And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is a woman's whole existence.
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As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.
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When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
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Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat's or she purred.
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I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.
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. . . to walk alone in London is the greatest rest.
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I will dream today for I must unscrew my head somehow.
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