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Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? All this must go on without her did she resent it or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?

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
Must
Completely
Resent
Believe
Asked
Inevitably
Walking
Bond
Streets
Ended
Death
Cease
Become
Towards
Without
Street
Matter
Absolutely
Consoling

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Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.
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The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.
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The profound difference that divides the human race is a question of bait - whether to fish with worms or not.
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The way to write well is to live intensely.
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One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.
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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 often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said.
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The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.
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Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
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When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
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It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul never to be content quite, or quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred.
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Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
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Now, aged 50, I'm just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are.
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We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
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I am obsessed at nights with the idea of my own worthlessness, and if it were only to turn a light on to save my life I think I would not do it. These are the last footprints of a headache I suppose. Do you ever feel that? - like an old weed in a stream. What do you feel, lying in bed?
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Once you fall, Septimus repeated to himself, human nature is on you. Holmes and Bradshaw are on you. They scour the desert. They fly screaming into the wilderness. The rack and the thumbscrew are applied. Human nature is remorseless.
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it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
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