Quote

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

Change background

T
T
T

Change font

TAGS & TOPICS

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

More quotes by Virginia Woolf

Image
He began to search among the infinite series of impressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain among scents, sounds voices, harsh, hollow, sweet and lights passing, and brooms tapping and the wash and hush of the sea.
Virginia Woolf
Image
... why do people who live in the country always give themselves such airs?
Virginia Woolf
Image
For nothing was simply one thing.
Virginia Woolf
Image
To know whom to write for is to know how to write.
Virginia Woolf
Image
Thoughts without words… Can that be?
Virginia Woolf
Image
I prefer men to cauliflowers
Virginia Woolf
Image
The taste for books was an early one. As a child he was sometimes found at midnight by a page still reading. They took his taper away, and he bred glow-worms to serve his purpose. They took the glow-worms away and he almost burnt the house down with a tinder.
Virginia Woolf
Image
Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.
Virginia Woolf
Image
I want to write a novel about Silence, he said “the things people don’t say.
Virginia Woolf
Image
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.
Virginia Woolf
Image
It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling it always broke down at the critical moment heroically, one must force it on.
Virginia Woolf
Image
Only longing can fill with more of itself.
Virginia Woolf
Image
Safe! safe! safe!' the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry 'Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
Virginia Woolf
Image
Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.
Virginia Woolf
Image
The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.
Virginia Woolf
Image
Almost any biographer, if he respects facts, can give us much more than another fact to add to our collection. He can give us the creative fact the fertile fact the fact that suggests and engenders.
Virginia Woolf
Image
Does housekeeping interest you at all? I think it really ought to be just as good as writing and I never see where the separation between the too comes in. At least if you must put books on one side and life on the other, each is a poor and bloodless thing but my theory is that they mix indistinguishable.
Virginia Woolf
Image
and even a tea party means apprehension, breakage
Virginia Woolf
Image
But it is just when opinions universally prevail and we have added lip service to their authority that we become sometimes most keenly conscious that we do not believe a word that we are saying.
Virginia Woolf
Image
Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.
Virginia Woolf