Quote

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.

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
Embrace
Shadow
Case
Cases
Eagerly
Life
Procession
Depart
Anguish
Shadows

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Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
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Brooding, she changed the pool into the sea, and made the minnows into sharks and whales, and cast vast clouds over this tiny world by holding her hand against the sun, and so brought darkness and desolation, like God himself, to millions of ignorant and innocent creatures, and then took her hand away suddenly and let the sun stream down.
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With my cheek leant upon the window pane I like to fancy that I am pressing as closely as can be upon the massy wall of time, which is forever lifting and pulling and letting fresh spaces of life in upon us. May it be mine to taste the moment before it has spread itself over the rest of the world! Let me taste the newest and the freshest.
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Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame
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Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost. Life would split asunder without them. 'Come to tea, come to dinner, what's the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the capital is wonderful the Russian dancers....' These are our stays and props. These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe.
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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
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One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
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What a lark! What a plunge!
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For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.
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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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If we didn't live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I've no doubt but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.
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She felt drawing further from her and further from her an Archduke, (she did not mind that) a fortune, (she did not mind that) the safety and circumstance of married life, (she did not mind that) but life she heard going from her, and a lover.
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I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.
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I will not be famous, great. I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.
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Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
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O why do I ever let anyone read what I write! Every time I have to go through a breakfast with a letter of criticism I swear I will write for my own praise or blame in future. It is a misery.
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Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.
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A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
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... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
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Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue.
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