Quote

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

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But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
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Do not move, do not go. Sink within this moment. Hold it for ever.
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Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.
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Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
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Above all you must illumine your own soul with its profundities and its shallows, and its vanities and its generosities, and say what your beauty means to you or your plainness, and what is your relation to the ever-changing and turning world.
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it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
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But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill his brain was perfect it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.
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I mean it's the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
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We are the words we are the music we are the thing itself.
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I was so pleased and excited by your letter that I trotted about all day like a puppy with a bone.
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I will go down with my colours flying.
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I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.
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It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.
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Just in case you ever foolishly forget I'm never not thinking of you
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... the random talk of people who have no chance of immortality and thus can speak their minds out has a setting, often, of lights, streets, houses, human beings, beautiful or grotesque, which will weave itself into the moment for ever.
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A biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many as a thousand.
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In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
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There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.
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For such will be our ruin if you, in the immensity of your public abstractions, forget the private figure, or if we in the intensity of our private emotions forget the public world. Both houses will be ruined, the public and the private, the material and the spiritual, for they are inseparably connected.
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It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole. This wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together
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