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So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball

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
Woman
Girl
Lily
Thought
Lilies
Men
Throwing
Ball
Balls
Marriage
Looking

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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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I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
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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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Be truthful, and the result is bound to be amazingly interesting.
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For we think back through our mothers if we are women.
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So coming back from a journey, or after an illness, before habits had spun themselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was so startling felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then.
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Illness is a part of every human being's experience. It enhances our perceptions and reduces self-consciousness. It is the great confessional things are said, truths are blurted out which health conceals.
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What could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what more commanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosom the seeds of death at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glittering eyed, must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.
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My mind turned by anxiety, or other cause, from its scrutiny of blank paper, is like a lost child–wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry.
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And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.
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It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
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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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Nothing is stronger than the position of the dead among the living.
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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
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People only become writers if they can't find the one book they've always wanted to read.
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It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life.
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I attain a different kind of beauty, achieve a symmetry by means of infinite discords, showing all the traces of the mind's passage through the world, achieve in the end some kind of whole made of shivering fragments.
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To enjoy freedom ... we have of course to control ourselves. We must not squander our powers, helplessly and ignorantly, squirting half the house in order to water a single rose.
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