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It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.

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
Beings
Transparencies
Tears
Unrecognizable
Reality
Gust
Human
Emily
Humans
Transcend
Life
Transparency
Tear
Fill

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The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.
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When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
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For if Chloe likes Olivia and Mary Carmichael knows how to express it she will light a torch in that vast chamber where nobody has yet been.
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You cannot lecture on really pure poetry any more than you can talk about the ingredients of pure water-it is adulterated, methylated, sanded poetry that makes the best lectures.
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Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
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The chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much-talked-of-man.
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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
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I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.
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Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.
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The older one grows, the more one likes indecency.
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Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
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By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream
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Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.
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Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
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The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
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Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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It is the duty of the writer to describe.
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Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
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Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
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I feel certain that I'm going mad again, I feel we can't go thru another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices
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