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After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.
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
Must
Would
World
Unbelievable
Loved
Death
Ends
Whole
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Half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves but to make people think this or that perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.
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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
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She came into a room she stood, as he had often seen her, in a doorway with lots of people round her. But it was Clarissa one remembered. Not that she was striking not beautiful at all there was nothing picturesque about her she never said anything specially clever there she was however there she was.
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After all, what is a lovely phrase? One that has mopped up as much Truth as it can hold.
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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
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Happily, at forty-six I still feel as experimental and on the verge of getting at the truth as ever.
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You have been in every way all that anyone could be.... If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.
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The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
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With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
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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 smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.
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The immense success of our life is, I think, that our treasure is hid away or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.
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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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How remorseless life is!
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It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things trees, streams, flowers felt they expressed one felt they became one felt they knew one, in a sense were one felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.
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Would there be trees if we didn't see them?
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To be nothing - is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?
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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.
Virginia Woolf
