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But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
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
Indifference
Complete
Except
Strange
Nothing
Love
People
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
There are no teachers, saints, prophets, good people, but the artists.
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I [who] am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement.
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
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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?
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We are cut, we are fallen. We are become part of that unfeeling universe that sleeps when we are at our quickest and burns red when we lie asleep.
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There are moments when one can neither think nor feel, she thought, and if one can neithre feel nor think, where's one?
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It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
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Above all you must illumine your own soul with its profundities and its shallows, and its vanities and its generosities, and say what your beauty means to you or your plainness, and what is your relation to the ever-changing and turning world.
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I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.
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We all indulge in the strange, pleasant process called thinking, but when it comes to saying, even to someone opposite, what we think, then how little we are able to convey! The phantom is through the mind and out of the window before we can lay salt on
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Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.
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I press to my centre, and find there is something there.
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Language is wine upon the lips.
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So the days pass, and I ask myself whether one is not hypnotized, as a child by a silver globe, by life, and whether this is living.
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Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
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Still, life had a way of adding day to day
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What a lark! What a plunge!
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To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.
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Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.
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