Quote

Then may I tell you that the very next words I read were these – ‘Chloe liked Olivia…’ Do not start. Do not blush. Let us admit in the privacy of our own society that these things sometimes happen. Sometimes women do like women.

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
Next
Admit
Happens
Liked
Women
Happen
May
Start
Sometimes
Society
Olivia
Things
Read
Chloe
Like
Words
Blush
Tell
Privacy

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Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.
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Oh, but she never wanted James to grow a day older or Cam either. These two she would have liked to keep for ever just as the way they were, demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never to see them grow up into long-legged monsters.
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For such will be our ruin if you, in the immensity of your public abstractions, forget the private figure, or if we in the intensity of our private emotions forget the public world. Both houses will be ruined, the public and the private, the material and the spiritual, for they are inseparably connected.
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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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These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.
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My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
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I read the book of Job last night, I don't think God comes out well in it.
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Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
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Ruin, weariness, death, perpetually death, stand grimly to confront the other presence of Elizabethan drama which is life: life compact of frigates, fir trees and ivory, of dolphins and the juice of July flowers, of the milk of unicorns and panthers’ breath, of ropes of pearl, brains of peacocks and Cretan wine.
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The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.
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But what a little I can get down into my pen of what is so vivid to my eyes, and not only to my eyes also to some nervous fibre, or fanlike membrane in my species.
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It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling it always broke down at the critical moment heroically, one must force it on.
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Thinking is my fighting.
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The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.
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I am tied down with single words. But you wander off you slip away you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.
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