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The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.
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
Novelists
Perfectly
Simple
Human
Humans
Real
Imaging
Indefinitely
Novelist
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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.
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But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.
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... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
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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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The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.
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Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
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In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows.
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A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
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and then he could not see her come into a room without a sense of the flowing of robes, of the flowering of blossoms, of the purple waves of the sea, of all things that are lovely and mutable on the surface but still and passionate in their heart.
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Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
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No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.
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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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I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
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I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.
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Sir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.
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Why, he wondered, did people who had been asleep always want to make out that they were extremely wide-awake?
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Fear no more, says the heart.
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Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding and thought.
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To survive, each sentence must have, at its heart, a little spark of fire, and this, whatever the risk, the novelist must pluck with his own hands from the blaze.
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