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I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.

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
Oneself
Beautiful
Littles
Shutting
Music
Delights
Little
Intensely
Everything
Pictures
Feel
Delight
Feels
Healing

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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 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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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.
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And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
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I want some one to sit beside after the day's pursuit and all its anguish, after its listening, its waitings, and its suspicions. After quarreling and reconciliation I need privacy--to be alone with you, to set this hubbub in order. For I am as neat as a cat in my habits.
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I have a feeling I shall go mad. I cannot go on longer in these terrible times. I shan't recover this time. I hear voices and cannot concentrate on my work. I have fought against it but cannot fight any longer.
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Travelers are much at the mercy of phrases ... vast generalizations formulate in their exposed brains.
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Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.
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Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure
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I attain a different kind of beauty, achieve a symmetry by means of infinite discords, showing all the traces of the mind's passage through the world, achieve in the end some kind of whole made of shivering fragments.
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History is too much about wars biography too much about great men.
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Methinks the human method of expression by sound of tongue is very elementary, and ought to be substituted for some ingenious invention which should be able to give vent to at least six coherent sentences at once.
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Though we see the same world, we see it through different eyes. Any help we can give you must be different from that you can give yourselves, and perhaps the value of that help may lie in the fact of that difference.
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But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.
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When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
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Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.
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Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.
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A biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many as a thousand.
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One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate suffering, or increase the breed of these lustful animals, who have no lasting emotions, but only whims and vanities, eddying them now this way, now that.
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