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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

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
Draws
Words
Different
Made
People
Remade
Continually
Draw

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Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.
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But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came.
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Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.
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As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.
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Nothing, I know, had any chance against death.
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By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
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I need not hate any man he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man he has nothing to give me.
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Talents of the novelist: ... observation of character, analysis of emotion, people's feelings, personal relations.
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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling it always broke down at the critical moment heroically, one must force it on.
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Inevitably we look upon society, so kind to you, so harsh to us, as an ill-fitting form that distorts the truth deforms the mind fetters the will.
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So I have to create the whole thing afresh for myself each time. Probably all writers now are in the same boat. It is the penalty we pay for breaking with tradition, and the solitude makes the writing more exciting though the being read less so. One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with ones words.
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In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge in the bellow and uproar the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging brass bands barrel organs in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved life London this moment in June.
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Alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity a freedom which the attached can never know
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I must try to set aside half an hour in some part of my day, and consecrate it to diary writing. Give it a name and a place, and then perhaps, such is the human mind, I shall come to think it a duty, and disregard other duties for it.
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It is no use trying to sum people up.
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There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.
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I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.
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At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world.
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