Quote

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

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
Matter
Substance
Globe
Make
Instance
Globes
Fingers
Shaped
Love
Turn
Solid
Life
Turns
Plain
Like
Story
Pretend
Next
Logical
Stories
Manner
Orderly

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Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.
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Women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems.
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Thus Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Douglas and Mr. Joyce partly spoil their books for women readers by their display of self-conscious virility and Mr. Hemingway, but much less violently, follows suit.
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A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
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The best letters of our time are precisely those that can never be published.
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It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole. This wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together
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One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.
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If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasure - the relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it truthfully?
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.
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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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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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I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
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O how blessed it would be never to marry, or grow old but to spend one's life innocently and indifferently among the trees and rivers which alone can keep one cool and childlike in the midst of the troubles of the world!
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It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
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They came to her, naturally, since she was a woman, all day long with this and that one wanting this, another that the children were growing up she often felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped full of human emotions.
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The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.
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To be nothing - is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?
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For if Chloe likes Olivia and Mary Carmichael knows how to express it she will light a torch in that vast chamber where nobody has yet been.
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Am I alone in my egotism when I say that never does the pale light of dawn filter through the blinds of 52 Tavistock Square but I open my eyes and exclaim, Good God! Here I am again! not always with pleasure, often with pain sometimes in a spasm.
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