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It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things trees, streams, flowers felt they expressed one felt they became one felt they knew one, in a sense were one felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.

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
Flower
Steady
Things
Tree
Streams
Knew
Flowers
Leant
Alone
Trees
Inanimate
Sense
Thus
Expressed
Felt
Oneself
Tenderness
Light
Became
Irrational
Thought
Looked
Odd

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Finally, I would thank, had I not lost his name and address, a gentleman in America, who has generously and gratuitously corrected the punctuation, the botany, the entomology, the geography, and the chronology of previous works of mine and will, I hope, not spare his services on the present occasion.
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But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
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He was a thorough good sort a bit limited a bit thick in the head yes but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way without a touch of imagination, without a sparkle of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type.
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Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
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Oh, I am in love with life!
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But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
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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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The depths of the sea are only water after all.
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I will go down with my colours flying.
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Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.
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What could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what more commanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosom the seeds of death at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glittering eyed, must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.
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Chastity ... has, even now, a religious importance in a woman's life, and has so wrapped itself round with nerves and instincts that to cut it free and bring it to the light of day demands courage of the rarest.
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Where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.
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Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame
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I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
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As nobody can possibly tell me whether one's writing is bad or good, the only certain value is one's own pleasure. I am sure of that.
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No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes
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One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
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