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He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.

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
Red
Believed
Wrote
Impeccably
Subject
Corrected
Subjects
Ignoring
Wise
Ink
Beautiful
Dreamed
Thought
Poems

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There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.
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I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.
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He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.
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Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.
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It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
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When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
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Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.
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He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.
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So that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again.
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Use words that soak up life.
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Talents of the novelist: ... observation of character, analysis of emotion, people's feelings, personal relations.
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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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As for 'drawing you out,' please believe I don't do such things deliberately, with an object -- It's only that I am, as a rule, far more interested in people than they are in me -- But it makes me a nuisance, I know: only an innocent nuisance.
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As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.
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Why is life so tragic so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down I feel giddy I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.
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Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
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A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
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for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge
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The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.
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