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How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?
Virginia Woolf
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Virginia Woolf
Age: 59 †
Born: 1882
Born: January 25
Died: 1941
Died: March 28
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Essayist
Feminist
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London
England
Virxhinia Ulf
Virginia yo juanito Adeline Woolf
Virg̔inyah Vold
Virdžiniâ Vulf
Virdzhiniia Vulf
Virzhinia Ulf
Virginia Stephen
Virzhin︠iia Ulf
Adeline Virginia Stephen
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Adeline Virginia Woolf
Virginia Adeline Woolf
Adeline Virginia Stephen Woolf
Birtzinia Gulph
Virginia Stephen Woolf
Woolf
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1882-1941
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More quotes by Virginia Woolf
Life would split apart without letters.
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Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
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The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.
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Ruin, weariness, death, perpetually death, stand grimly to confront the other presence of Elizabethan drama which is life: life compact of frigates, fir trees and ivory, of dolphins and the juice of July flowers, of the milk of unicorns and panthers’ breath, of ropes of pearl, brains of peacocks and Cretan wine.
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Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence
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Altogether, the task of estimating the length of human life is beyond our capacity, for directly we say that it is ages long, we are reminded that it is briefer than the fall of a rose leaf to the ground.
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Why, he wondered, did people who had been asleep always want to make out that they were extremely wide-awake?
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A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
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Like and like and like--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?
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But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
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I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?
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For the young people could not talk. And why should they? Shout, embrace, swing, be up at dawn.
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Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.
Virginia Woolf
Life's bare as a bone.
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Why does one write these books after all? The drudgery, the misery, the grind, are forgotten everytime and one launches another, and it seems sheer joy and buoyancy.
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O how blessed it would be never to marry, or grow old but to spend one's life innocently and indifferently among the trees and rivers which alone can keep one cool and childlike in the midst of the troubles of the world!
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But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
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Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.
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You can't think how I depend on you, and when you're not there the colour goes out of my life.
Virginia Woolf
The habit of writing for my eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.
Virginia Woolf