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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
Together
Feed
Come
Presses
Press
Flesh
Tears
Asunder
Moment
Fangs
Pain
Bury
Moments
Tear

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what she loved: life, London, this moment of june.
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The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.
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madam, the man cried, leaping to the ground, you're hurt! I'm dead, sir! she replied. A few minutes later, they became engaged.
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He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.
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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
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For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think well not even to think. To be silent to be alone.
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The weight of the world is on our shoulders, its vision is through our eyes if we blink or look aside, or turn back to finger what Plato said or remember Napoleon and his conquests, we inflict on the world the injury of some obliquity. This is life.
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All the months are crude experiments, out of which the perfect September is made.
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Safe! safe! safe!' the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry 'Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky.
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Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.
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Communication is truth communication is happiness. To share is our duty to go down boldly and bring to light those hidden thoughts which are the most diseased to conceal nothing to pretend nothing if we are ignorant to say so if we love our friends to let them know it.
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Only longing can fill with more of itself.
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It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
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Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
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Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.
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