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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.

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
Works
Along
Move
Strange
Moving
Scrap
Makes
Legs
Mind
Road
Time
Poetry

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The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine My thoughts follow the exact same process.
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Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
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A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
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The history of most women is hidden either by silence, or by flourishes and ornaments that amount to silence.
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I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.
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No passion is stronger in the breast of man than the desire to make others believe as he believes
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For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.
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It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.
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Alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity a freedom which the attached can never know
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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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The world is crammed with delightful things
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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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It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.
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Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
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Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.
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Use words that soak up life.
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