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

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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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She felt drawing further from her and further from her an Archduke, (she did not mind that) a fortune, (she did not mind that) the safety and circumstance of married life, (she did not mind that) but life she heard going from her, and a lover.
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I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.
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It is no use trying to sum people up.
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If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
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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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So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.
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I am rooted, but I flow.
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London perpetually attracts, stimulates, gives me a play and a story and a poem, without any trouble, save that of moving my legs through the streets... To walk alone through London is the greatest rest.
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We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
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The world is crammed with delightful things
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It would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare.
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Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
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I am obsessed at nights with the idea of my own worthlessness, and if it were only to turn a light on to save my life I think I would not do it. These are the last footprints of a headache I suppose. Do you ever feel that? - like an old weed in a stream. What do you feel, lying in bed?
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To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination.
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We seem to be riding on the top of the highest mast of the tallest ship and yet at the same time we know that nothing of this sort matters love is not proved thus, nor great achievements completed thus so that we sport with the moment and preen our feathers in it lightly.
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If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.
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Incessant company is as bad as solitary confinement.
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Masterpieces are not single and solitary births they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.
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When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
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