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It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling it always broke down at the critical moment heroically, one must force it on.

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
Force
Machine
Feelings
Broke
Moments
Miserable
Thought
Machines
Human
Critical
Humans
Painting
Heroically
Must
Feeling
Inefficient
Always
Moment
Apparatus

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I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.
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A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.
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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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Doesn't one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren't they one's past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees ... one's happiness, one's reality?
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I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.
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Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.
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All extremes are dangerous.
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All the months are crude experiments, out of which the perfect September is made.
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But Time, unfortunately, though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and fade with amazing punctuality has no such simple effect upon the mind of man.
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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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She was like a crinkled poppy with the desire to drink dry dust.
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Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.
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The world was going on as usual. All the time she was writing the world had continued.
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Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?
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A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one
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I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
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I read the book of Job last night, I don't think God comes out well in it.
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What is meant by reality? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable - now to be found in a dusty road, now in a scrap of newspaper in the street, now a daffodil in the sun. It lights up a group in a room and stamps some casual saying
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A light here required a shadow there.
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