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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
Except
Strange
Nothing
Love
People
Indifference
Complete
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We insist, it seems, on living.
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I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
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I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.
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To be caught happy in a world of misery was for an honest man the most despicable of crimes.
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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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O how blessed it would be never to marry, or grow old but to spend one's life innocently and indifferently among the trees and rivers which alone can keep one cool and childlike in the midst of the troubles of the world!
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Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.
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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
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I believe that the main thing in beginning a novel is to feel, not that you can write it, but that it exists on the far side of a gulf, which words can't cross: that it's to be pulled through only in a breathless anguish.
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But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.
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If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?
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[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.
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I will dream today for I must unscrew my head somehow.
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... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
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They came to her, naturally, since she was a woman, all day long with this and that one wanting this, another that the children were growing up she often felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped full of human emotions.
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Soup is cuisines kindest course
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My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
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Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost. Life would split asunder without them. 'Come to tea, come to dinner, what's the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the capital is wonderful the Russian dancers....' These are our stays and props. These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe.
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How are we to account for the strange human craving for the pleasure of feeling afraid which is so much involved in our love of ghost stories?
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In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.
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