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The hatchet must fall on the block the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I.

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
World
Sign
Basket
Letters
Baskets
Weight
Oaks
Paper
Wire
Name
Pens
Names
Centre
Fall
Shoulders
Cleft
Must
Block
Hatchet

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... the random talk of people who have no chance of immortality and thus can speak their minds out has a setting, often, of lights, streets, houses, human beings, beautiful or grotesque, which will weave itself into the moment for ever.
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The best letters of our time are precisely those that can never be published.
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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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It is probable that both in life and in art the values of a woman are not the values of a man.
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Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
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Women alone stir my imagination.
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Let us not take for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.
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If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.
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I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.
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I'm fundamentally, I think, an outsider. I do my best work and feel most braced with my back to the wall. It's an odd feeling though, writing aginst the current: difficult entirely to disregard the current. Yet of course I shall.
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Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.
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I feel my brains, like a pear, to see if it's ripe it will be exquisite by September.
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They lack suggestive power. And when a book lacks suggestive power, however hard it hits the surface of the mind it cannot penetrate within.
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I like to have space to spread my mind out in.
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to teach without zest is a crime.
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If this were the time or the place to uphold a paradox, I am half inclined to state that Norfolk is one of the most beautiful of counties.
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That great Cathedral space which was childhood.
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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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Yet there are moments when the walls of the mind grow thin when nothing is unabsorbed, and I could fancy that we might blow so vast a bubble that the sun might set and rise in it and we might take the blue of midday and the black of midnight and be cast off and escape from here and now.
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Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure
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