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So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.

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
Long
Nobody
Hours
Age
Whether
Wish
Write
Matter
Ages
Writing
Matters

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She thought there were no Gods no one was to blame and so she evolved this atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.
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Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
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... the random talk of people who have no chance of immortality and thus can speak their minds out has a setting, often, of lights, streets, houses, human beings, beautiful or grotesque, which will weave itself into the moment for ever.
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That great Cathedral space which was childhood.
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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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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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Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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... if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.
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There'll be oceans of talk and emotions without end.
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The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.
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The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.
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It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul never to be content quite, or quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred.
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Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.
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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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A biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many as a thousand.
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All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
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But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.
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We are the words we are the music we are the thing itself.
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The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
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It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, both to fight and to have ideals.
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