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For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.
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
Flesh
Tears
Asunder
Moment
Fangs
Pain
Bury
Moments
Tear
Together
Feed
Come
Presses
Press
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.
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... if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.
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There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.
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Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.
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Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.
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Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.
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It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly.
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My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
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. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.
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A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one
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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
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The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty observations, has a romance of its own.
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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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But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
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I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.
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Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
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The best letters of our time are precisely those that can never be published.
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Art is not a copy of the real world one of the damn things is enough.
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