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I like books whose virtue is all drawn together in a page or two. I like sentences that don't budge though armies cross them.

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
Together
Crosses
Book
Army
Like
Pages
Budge
Whose
Armies
Virtue
Drawn
Books
Page
Though
Sentences
Two
Cross

More quotes by Virginia Woolf

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For such will be our ruin if you, in the immensity of your public abstractions, forget the private figure, or if we in the intensity of our private emotions forget the public world. Both houses will be ruined, the public and the private, the material and the spiritual, for they are inseparably connected.
Virginia Woolf
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Come indoors then, and open the books on your library shelves. For you have a library and a good one. A working library, a living library a library where nothing is chained down and nothing is locked up a library where the songs of the singers rise naturally from the lives of the livers.
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The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine My thoughts follow the exact same process.
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Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.
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Why does Samuel Butler say, 'Wise men never say what they think of women'? Wise men never say anything else apparently.
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I press to my centre, and find there is something there.
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To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is...at last, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away.
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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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every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works, yet we require critics to explain the one and biographers to expound the other. That time hangs heavy on people's hands is the only explanation of the monstrous growth.
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I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.
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It was strange to think that all the great women of fiction were, until Jane Austen's day, not only seen by the other sex, but seen only in relation to the other sex. And how small a part of woman's life is that.
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Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat's or she purred.
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I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.
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Where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.
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We scarcely wish to analyse what we feel to be so large and deeply human.
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What could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what more commanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosom the seeds of death at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glittering eyed, must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.
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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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One should be a painter. As a writer, I feel the beauty, which is almost entirely colour, very subtle, very changeable, running over my pen, as if you poured a large jug of champagne over a hairpin.
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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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Just in case you ever foolishly forget I'm never not thinking of you
Virginia Woolf