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Lock up your libraries if you like but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.

Virginia Woolf

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Virginia Woolf
Age: 59 †
Born: 1882
Born: January 25
Died: 1941
Died: March 28
Author
Autobiographer
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Essayist
Feminist
Literary Critic
Novelist
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Short Story Writer
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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
Library
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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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Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.
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She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.
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. . . to walk alone in London is the greatest rest.
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She felt drawing further from her and further from her an Archduke, (she did not mind that) a fortune, (she did not mind that) the safety and circumstance of married life, (she did not mind that) but life she heard going from her, and a lover.
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Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.
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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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Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.
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Illness is a part of every human being's experience. It enhances our perceptions and reduces self-consciousness. It is the great confessional things are said, truths are blurted out which health conceals.
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You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
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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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Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.
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Ruin, weariness, death, perpetually death, stand grimly to confront the other presence of Elizabethan drama which is life: life compact of frigates, fir trees and ivory, of dolphins and the juice of July flowers, of the milk of unicorns and panthers’ breath, of ropes of pearl, brains of peacocks and Cretan wine.
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Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.
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He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.
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Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?
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I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.
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But how entirely I live in my imagination how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.
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if newspapers were written by people whose sole object in writing was to tell the truth about politics and the truth about art we should not believe in war, and we should believe in art.
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When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
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