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Tragedies come in the hungry hours.

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
Tragedies
Hungry
Tragedy
Hours
Come

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We agreed that people are now afraid of the English language. He [T.S. Eliot] said it came of being bookish, but not reading books enough. One should read all styles thoroughly.
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Doesn't one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren't they one's past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees ... one's happiness, one's reality?
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Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
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Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.
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Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
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Great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do.
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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
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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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One should be a painter. As a writer, I feel the beauty, which is almost entirely colour, very subtle, very changeable, running over my pen, as if you poured a large jug of champagne over a hairpin.
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To stand in a great bookshop crammed with books so new that their pages almost stick together, and the gilt on their backs is still fresh, has an excitement no less delightful than the old excitement of the second-hand bookstall.
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writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.
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History is too much about wars biography too much about great men.
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To love makes one solitary.
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Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
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How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.
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loveliness is infernally sad.
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Biography is to give a man some kind of shape after his death.
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His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they held dreams or realities...and in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life.
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She began framing the words of her telegram into a senseless singsong so that several park keepers looked at her with suspicion and were only brought to a favourable opinion of her sanity by noticing the pearl necklace which she wore.
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When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.
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