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. . . to walk alone in London is the greatest rest.
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
Greatest
Alone
London
Walk
Rest
Walks
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
I don't believe that you can possibly separate expression from thought in an imaginative work. The better a thing is expressed, the more completely it is thought.
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Love had a thousand shapes.
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Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.
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Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
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fishing teaches a stern morality inculcates a remorseless honesty.
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Thoughts without words… Can that be?
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I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.
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There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.
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She felt drawing further from her and further from her an Archduke, (she did not mind that) a fortune, (she did not mind that) the safety and circumstance of married life, (she did not mind that) but life she heard going from her, and a lover.
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With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.
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I will not be famous, great. I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.
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The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.
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No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
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I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.
Virginia Woolf
One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy.
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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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I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.
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She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.
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I do think all good and evil comes from words. I have to tune myself into a good temper with something musical, and I run to a book as a child to its mother.
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We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.
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