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

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A light here required a shadow there.
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Love ought to stop on both sides, don’t you think, simultaneously?’ He spoke without any stress on the words, so as not to wake the sleepers. ‘But it won’t - that’s the devil,’ he added in the same undertone.
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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
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I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.
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Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.
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The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine My thoughts follow the exact same process.
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The cold stream of visual impressions failed him now as if the eye were a cup that overflowed and let the rest run down its china walls unrecorded.
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It is worth mentioning, for future reference, that the creative power which bubbles so pleasantly in beginning a new book quiets down after a time, and one goes on more steadily. Doubts creep in. Then one becomes resigned. Determination not to give in, and the sense of an impending shape keep one at it more than anything.
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How much better is silence the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
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I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.
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Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!
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There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.
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That great Cathedral space which was childhood.
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For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.
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Only longing can fill with more of itself.
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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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Have you any notion how many books are written about women in the course of one year? Have you any notion how many are written by men? Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?
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Does housekeeping interest you at all? I think it really ought to be just as good as writing and I never see where the separation between the too comes in. At least if you must put books on one side and life on the other, each is a poor and bloodless thing but my theory is that they mix indistinguishable.
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I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.
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