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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
Mind
Romantic
Love
Illusion
Story
Makes
Another
Stories
Persons
Person

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Let us not take for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.
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I have made up thousands of stories I have filled innumerable notebooks with phrases to be used when I have found the true story, the one story to which all these phrases refer. But I have never yet found the story. And I begin to ask, Are there stories?
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Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.
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I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists the reality of everything.
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Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.
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There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.
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Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
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When people are happy they have a reserve upon which to draw, whereas she was like a wheel without a tyre
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Middlemarch, the magnificent book which with all its imperfections is one of the few English novels for grown-up people.
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Language is wine upon the lips.
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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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Words belong to each other.
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It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, both to fight and to have ideals.
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But Time, unfortunately, though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and fade with amazing punctuality has no such simple effect upon the mind of man.
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I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
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Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.
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A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.
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What a lark! What a plunge!
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Some people go to priests others to poetry I to my friends.
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Half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves but to make people think this or that perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.
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