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Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.
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
Story
Makes
Another
Stories
Persons
Person
Romantic
Mind
Love
Illusion
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.
Virginia Woolf
Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding and thought.
Virginia Woolf
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
Virginia Woolf
In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
Virginia Woolf
Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.
Virginia Woolf
The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.
Virginia Woolf
It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
Virginia Woolf
The streets of London have their map, but our passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?
Virginia Woolf
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
Virginia Woolf
The hatchet must fall on the block the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I.
Virginia Woolf
Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
Virginia Woolf
People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.
Virginia Woolf
What could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what more commanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosom the seeds of death at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glittering eyed, must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.
Virginia Woolf
I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
Virginia Woolf
But words have been used too often touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.
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Why does one write these books after all? The drudgery, the misery, the grind, are forgotten everytime and one launches another, and it seems sheer joy and buoyancy.
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What a lark! What a plunge!
Virginia Woolf
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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One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
Virginia Woolf
We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.
Virginia Woolf
