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What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.
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
Excitement
Terror
Extraordinary
Thought
Clarissa
Fills
Ecstasy
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A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.
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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
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Jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind.
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The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.
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She was like a crinkled poppy with the desire to drink dry dust.
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Women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems.
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Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.
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Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?
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A light here required a shadow there.
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I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
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After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.
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I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.
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The profound difference that divides the human race is a question of bait - whether to fish with worms or not.
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Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
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... if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.
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it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
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Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.
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Life stand still here.
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madam, the man cried, leaping to the ground, you're hurt! I'm dead, sir! she replied. A few minutes later, they became engaged.
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Have you any notion how many books are written about women in the course of one year? Have you any notion how many are written by men? Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?
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