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Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

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
Violet
Louis
Woven
Death
Violets

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For nothing was simply one thing.
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Submit to me. So she said nothing, but looked doggedly and sadly at the shore, wrapped in its mantle of peace as if the people there had fallen alseep, she thought were free like smoke, were free to come and go like ghosts. They have no suffering there, she thought.
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Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
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The eyes of others our prisons their thoughts our cages.
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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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Books are the mirrors of the soul.
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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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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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The best letters of our time are precisely those that can never be published.
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What a labour writing is ... making one sentence do the work of a page that's what I call hard work.
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Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.
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I mean it's the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
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Travelers are much at the mercy of phrases ... vast generalizations formulate in their exposed brains.
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We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.
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The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight.
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When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of utmost importance very various heroic and mean splendid and sordid infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme as great as a man some think even greater.
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It is no use trying to sum people up.
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I grow numb I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?
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I see through most people I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they've got in them.
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