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I [who] am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement.
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
Statement
Statements
Final
Finals
Notes
Making
Margin
Mind
Perpetually
Margins
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?
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Language is wine upon the lips.
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There are no teachers, saints, prophets, good people, but the artists.
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I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.
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If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.
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Women alone stir my imagination.
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Nothing is stronger than the position of the dead among the living.
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I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said.
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For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
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Alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity a freedom which the attached can never know
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The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
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If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasure - the relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it truthfully?
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I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
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Of the rest some we know to be dead though they walk among us some are not yet born though they go through the forms of life others are hundreds of years old though they call themselves thirty-six.
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The eyes of others our prisons their thoughts our cages.
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Life's bare as a bone.
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War is not women's history.
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We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.
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In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.
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Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure
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