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So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.
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
Except
Dropped
Wind
Sail
Fine
Fabric
Morning
Clouds
High
Stuck
Sky
Streak
Sea
Sails
Looked
Streaks
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To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.
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Middlemarch, the magnificent book which with all its imperfections is one of the few English novels for grown-up people.
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I will go down with my colours flying.
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... why do people who live in the country always give themselves such airs?
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For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.
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Why have I so little control? It is the case of much waste and pain in my life.
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A thousand things to be written had I time: had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.
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Life would split apart without letters.
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Tell me, he wanted to say, everything in the whole world - for he had the wildest, most absurd, extravagant ideas about poets and poetry - but how to speak to a man who does not see you? who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depth of the sea instead?
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For nothing was simply one thing.
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As a woman, I have no country
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The chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much-talked-of-man.
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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.
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It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.
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It doesn't have to be the truth, just your vision of it, written down.
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Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
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Men felt a chill in their hearts a damp in their minds. In a desperate effort to snuggle their feelings into some sort of warmth,one subterfuge was tried after anothersentences swelled, adjectives multiplied, lyrics became epics.
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Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.
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It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
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But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.
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