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When she read just now to James, 'and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrums and trumpets,' and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should they grow up, and lose all that?
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
Loses
Grows
Darkened
Eyes
Trumpets
Read
Soldiers
Thought
James
Grow
Lose
Numbers
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
Virginia Woolf
The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.
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Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
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What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
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A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one
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You can't think how I depend on you, and when you're not there the colour goes out of my life.
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... why do people who live in the country always give themselves such airs?
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He was a thorough good sort a bit limited a bit thick in the head yes but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way without a touch of imagination, without a sparkle of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type.
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So I have to create the whole thing afresh for myself each time. Probably all writers now are in the same boat. It is the penalty we pay for breaking with tradition, and the solitude makes the writing more exciting though the being read less so. One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with ones words.
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The most important thing is not to think very much about oneself. To investigate candidly the charge but not fussily, not very anxiously. On no account to retaliate by going to the other extreme -- thinking too much.
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The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.
Virginia Woolf
Life for both sexes is arduous, difficult, a perpetual struggle. More than anything... it calls for confidence in oneself...And how can we generate this imponderable quality most quickly? By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself.
Virginia Woolf
One should aim, seriously, at disregarding ups and downs a compliment here, silence there ... the central fact remains stable, which is the fact of my own pleasure in the art.
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loveliness is infernally sad.
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Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?
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I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
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Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.
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To read a novel is a difficult and complex art.
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Nothing, I know, had any chance against death.
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In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
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