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It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life.

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
Life
Pure
Possible
Taken
Bead
Show
Beads
Shows
Lightly
True
Feathers
Nature
Tiny
Someone
Dancing

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How are we to account for the strange human craving for the pleasure of feeling afraid which is so much involved in our love of ghost stories?
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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
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To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have- to want and want- how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!
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The world has raised its whip where will it descend?
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Outside the trees dragged their leaves like nets through the depths of the air the sound of water was in the room and through the waves came the voices of birds singing.
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I will dream today for I must unscrew my head somehow.
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That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions to be poor always and unkempt to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.
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When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.
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Literature is no one’s private ground, literature is common ground let us trespass freely and fearlessly and find our own way for ourselves.
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By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
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But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful.
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Like all very handsome men who die tragically, he left not so much a character behind him as a legend. Youth and death shed a halo through which it is difficult to see a real face.
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It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.
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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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I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.
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As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.
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My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
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A good essay must have this permanent quality about it it must draw its curtain round us, but it must be a curtain that shuts us in not out.
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Life stand still here.
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