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It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.
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
Dream
Silly
Unhappy
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The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
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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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For we think back through our mothers if we are women.
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Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
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it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
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It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.
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Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
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The only advice ... that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions.
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Have you any notion how many books are written about women in the course of one year? Have you any notion how many are written by men? Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?
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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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To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.
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Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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I have made up thousands of stories I have filled innumerable notebooks with phrases to be used when I have found the true story, the one story to which all these phrases refer. But I have never yet found the story. And I begin to ask, Are there stories?
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There is the strange power we have of changing facts by the force of the imagination.
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Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
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Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
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I'm fundamentally, I think, an outsider. I do my best work and feel most braced with my back to the wall. It's an odd feeling though, writing aginst the current: difficult entirely to disregard the current. Yet of course I shall.
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It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
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This is not writing at all. Indeed, I could say that Shakespeare surpasses literature altogether, if I knew what I meant.
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Only longing can fill with more of itself.
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