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She began framing the words of her telegram into a senseless singsong so that several park keepers looked at her with suspicion and were only brought to a favourable opinion of her sanity by noticing the pearl necklace which she wore.

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
Singing
Park
Necklaces
Opinion
Suspicion
Framing
Words
Sanity
Senseless
Parks
Keepers
Several
Pearl
Began
Noticing
Telegram
Brought
Wore
Favourable
Looked
Pearls
Necklace

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But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter!
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A thousand things to be written had I time: had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.
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Life would split apart without letters.
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Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
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What is amusing now had to be taken in desperate earnest once.
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Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them.
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Fear no more, says the heart.
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So coming back from a journey, or after an illness, before habits had spun themselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was so startling felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then.
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Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.
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It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
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All the months are crude experiments, out of which the perfect September is made.
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There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.
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We insist, it seems, on living.
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To survive, each sentence must have, at its heart, a little spark of fire, and this, whatever the risk, the novelist must pluck with his own hands from the blaze.
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Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.
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writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.
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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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But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.
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He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.
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