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Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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
Buried
Treasure
Light
Heart
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
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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I mean it's the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
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You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
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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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For the young people could not talk. And why should they? Shout, embrace, swing, be up at dawn.
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In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows.
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Nothing, however, can be more arrogant, though nothing is commoner than to assume that of Gods there is only one, and of religions none but the speaker’s.
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But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.
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We are the words we are the music we are the thing itself.
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I see through most people I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they've got in them.
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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
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Outside the trees dragged their leaves like nets through the depths of the air the sound of water was in the room and through the waves came the voices of birds singing.
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And you wish to be a poet and you wish to be a lover.
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You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.
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A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.
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You have been in every way all that anyone could be.... If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.
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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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Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.
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Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.
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It is the duty of the writer to describe.
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