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Life stand still here.

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
Stills
Still
Life
Crafts
Stand

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Happiness is to have a little string onto which things will attach themselves.
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I will go down with my colours flying.
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People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.
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He was a thorough good sort a bit limited a bit thick in the head yes but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way without a touch of imagination, without a sparkle of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type.
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Safe! safe! safe!' the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry 'Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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The truer the facts the better the fiction.
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works, yet we require critics to explain the one and biographers to expound the other. That time hangs heavy on people's hands is the only explanation of the monstrous growth.
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[Final diary entry:] Occupation is essential. And now with some pleasure I find that it's seven and must cook dinner. Haddock and sausage meat. I think it is true that one gains a certain hold on sausage and haddock by writing them down.
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When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
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Jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind.
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She fell into a deep pool of sticky water, which eventually closed over her head. She saw nothing and heard nothing but a faint booming sound, which was the sound of the sea rolling over her head. While all her tormentors thought that she was dead, she was not dead, but curled up at the bottom of the sea.
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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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The eyes of others our prisons their thoughts our cages.
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I was in a queer mood, thinking myself very old: but now I am a woman again - as I always am when I write.
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I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
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Books should stand on their own feet ... If they need shoring up by a preface here, an introduction there, they have no more right to exist than a table that needs a wad of paper under one leg in order to stand steady.
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On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.
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loveliness is infernally sad.
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When she read just now to James, 'and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrums and trumpets,' and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should they grow up, and lose all that?
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