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The cold stream of visual impressions failed him now as if the eye were a cup that overflowed and let the rest run down its china walls unrecorded.

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
Wall
Visuals
Cold
Visual
Rest
Walls
Eye
Streams
Running
Cups
Unrecorded
Failed
Overflowed
Impression
Impressions
China
Stream

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Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.
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Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
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Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
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They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought.
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
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Tell me, he wanted to say, everything in the whole world - for he had the wildest, most absurd, extravagant ideas about poets and poetry - but how to speak to a man who does not see you? who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depth of the sea instead?
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Thus Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Douglas and Mr. Joyce partly spoil their books for women readers by their display of self-conscious virility and Mr. Hemingway, but much less violently, follows suit.
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Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.
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We are cut, we are fallen. We are become part of that unfeeling universe that sleeps when we are at our quickest and burns red when we lie asleep.
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At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world.
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It is equally vain,” she thought, “for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think I can worship you. The light of truth beats upon us without shadow, and the light of truth is damnably unbecoming to us both.
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But it is just when opinions universally prevail and we have added lip service to their authority that we become sometimes most keenly conscious that we do not believe a word that we are saying.
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I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
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it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
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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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There was no treachery too base for the world to commit.
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The interest in life does not lie in what people do, nor even in their relations to each other, but largely in the power to communicate with a third party, antagonistic, enigmatic, yet perhaps persuadable, which one may call life in general.
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The poet is always our contemporary.
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But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill his brain was perfect it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.
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