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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
Come
Presses
Press
Flesh
Tears
Asunder
Moment
Fangs
Pain
Bury
Moments
Tear
Together
Feed
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.
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Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.
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How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.
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He was a thorough good sort a bit limited a bit thick in the head yes but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way without a touch of imagination, without a sparkle of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type.
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It would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare.
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In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows.
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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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Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
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Do not move, do not go. Sink within this moment. Hold it for ever.
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To read a novel is a difficult and complex art.
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Women alone stir my imagination.
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I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts.
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I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.
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By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream
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But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
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I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.
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For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
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Happiness is to have a little string onto which things will attach themselves.
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For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.
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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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