Quote

No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.

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
Thought
Object
Nothing
Lows
Always
Mark
Fluttered
Objects
Sideways
Nobody
Urgency
Moment
Struck
Words
Inches
Moments
Missed

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Use words that soak up life.
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He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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To be nothing - is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?
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Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.
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The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
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I believe that the main thing in beginning a novel is to feel, not that you can write it, but that it exists on the far side of a gulf, which words can't cross: that it's to be pulled through only in a breathless anguish.
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A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
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Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.
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She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.
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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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She was like a crinkled poppy with the desire to drink dry dust.
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I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.
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I was so pleased and excited by your letter that I trotted about all day like a puppy with a bone.
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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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It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
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The root of things, what they were all afraid of saying, was that happiness is dirt cheap. You can have it for nothing. Beauty.
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Thinking is my fighting.
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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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Novels so often provide an anodyne and not an antidote, glide one into torpid slumbers instead of rousing one with a burning brand.
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