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Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?

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
Without
Way
Tide
Tides
Weed
Carried
Twice
Meaning
Comes

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. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.
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He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
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Do not move, do not go. Sink within this moment. Hold it for ever.
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One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.
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To be nothing - is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?
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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, yet we require critics to explain the one and biographers to expound the other. That time hangs heavy on people's hands is the only explanation of the monstrous growth.
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Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black, halfway down, in the darkness, in the shaft which ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhaps a tear formed a tear fell the waves swayed this way and that, received it, and were at rest. Never did anybody look so sad.
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Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
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Would there be trees if we didn't see them?
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At 46 one must be a miser only have time for essentials.
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How are we to account for the strange human craving for the pleasure of feeling afraid which is so much involved in our love of ghost stories?
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Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
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He began to search among the infinite series of impressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain among scents, sounds voices, harsh, hollow, sweet and lights passing, and brooms tapping and the wash and hush of the sea.
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It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
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If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
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... I doubt the capacity of the human animal for being dignified in ceremony.
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It is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed any longer.
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But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
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