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madam, the man cried, leaping to the ground, you're hurt! I'm dead, sir! she replied. A few minutes later, they became engaged.

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
Hurt
Replied
Men
Cried
Engaged
Ground
Later
Became
Minutes
Madam
Dead
Leaping

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But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill his brain was perfect it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.
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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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Books are the mirrors of the soul.
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Mental fight means thinking against the current, not with it. It is our business to puncture gas bags and discover seeds of truth.
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You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.
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As for my next book, I won't write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.
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When she read just now to James, 'and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrums and trumpets,' and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should they grow up, and lose all that?
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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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The interest in life does not lie in what people do, nor even in their relations to each other, but largely in the power to communicate with a third party, antagonistic, enigmatic, yet perhaps persuadable, which one may call life in general.
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What is amusing now had to be taken in desperate earnest once.
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Intellectual freedom depends upon material things.
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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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There is something I want-something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeper without knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed.
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The habit of writing for my eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.
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I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.
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Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.
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I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
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People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.
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I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
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Life would split apart without letters.
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