Quote

Outside the trees dragged their leaves like nets through the depths of the air the sound of water was in the room and through the waves came the voices of birds singing.

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
Bird
Depths
Sound
Air
Waves
Water
Singing
Voices
Voice
Outside
Birds
Like
Room
Trees
Leaves
Rooms
Wave
Nets
Tree
Depth
Dragged
Came

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I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
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Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.
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Why does one write these books after all? The drudgery, the misery, the grind, are forgotten everytime and one launches another, and it seems sheer joy and buoyancy.
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Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than to merely keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world's view of us.
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Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.
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I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.
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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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There is a coherence in things, a stability something... is immune from change and shines out... in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby.
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It would be a thousand pities if women wrote like men, or lived like men, or looked like men, for if two sexes are quite inadequate, considering the vastness and variety of the world, how should we manage with one only? Ought not education to bring out and fortify the differences rather than the similarities?
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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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To sit and contemplate - to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy and yet content to remain where and what you are.
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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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.
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To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.
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The depths of the sea are only water after all.
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I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.
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The human frame being what it is, heart, body and brain all mixed together, and not contained in separate compartments as they will be no doubt in another million years, a good dinner is of great importance to good talk. One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
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After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.
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Does housekeeping interest you at all? I think it really ought to be just as good as writing and I never see where the separation between the too comes in. At least if you must put books on one side and life on the other, each is a poor and bloodless thing but my theory is that they mix indistinguishable.
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For love... has two faces one white, the other black two bodies one smooth, the other hairy. It has two hands, two feet, two tails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of the other. Yet, so strictly are they joined together
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