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I feel my brains, like a pear, to see if it's ripe it will be exquisite by September.
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
September
Brains
Brain
Feel
Feels
Pear
Like
Pears
Ripe
Exquisite
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
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I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
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The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.
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Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?
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For it is probable that when people talk aloud, the selves (of which there may be more than two thousand) are conscious of disserverment, and are trying to communicate but when communication is established there is nothing more to be said.
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We agreed that people are now afraid of the English language. He [T.S. Eliot] said it came of being bookish, but not reading books enough. One should read all styles thoroughly.
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Life would split apart without letters.
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Oh, I am in love with life!
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Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
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I have a feeling I shall go mad. I cannot go on longer in these terrible times. I shan't recover this time. I hear voices and cannot concentrate on my work. I have fought against it but cannot fight any longer.
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I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual
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So coming back from a journey, or after an illness, before habits had spun themselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was so startling felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then.
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Madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does.
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The immense success of our life is, I think, that our treasure is hid away or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.
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But Sasha who after all had no English blood in her but was from Russia where the sunsets are longer, the dawns less sudden, and sentences often left unfinished from doubt as to how best to end them.
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It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.
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It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
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In fact, though their acquaintance had been so short, they had guessed, as always happens between lovers, everything of any importance about each other in two seconds at the utmost, and it now remained only to fill in such unimportant details as what they were called where they lived and whether they were beggars or people of substance.
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