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So that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again.

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
Beats
Measured
Sea
Waves
Ocean
Repeat
Thoughts
Repeats
Fall
Beach
Part
Beat
Monotonous
Wave
Soothing
Seemed
Tattoo

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Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.
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Tell me, he wanted to say, everything in the whole world - for he had the wildest, most absurd, extravagant ideas about poets and poetry - but how to speak to a man who does not see you? who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depth of the sea instead?
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Madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does.
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I will dream today for I must unscrew my head somehow.
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If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
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One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.
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The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
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She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.
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On or about December 1910, human character changed.
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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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I will go down with my colours flying.
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They all dreamt of each other that night, as was natural, considering how thin the partitions were between them, and how strangely they had been lifted off the earth to sit next each other in mid-ocean, and see every detail of each others' faces, and hear whatever they chanced to say.
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Young women... you are, in my opinion, disgracefully ignorant. You have never made a discovery of any sort of importance. You have never shaken an empire or led an army into battle. The plays by Shakespeare are not by you, and you have never introduced a barbarous race to the blessings of civilization. What is your excuse?
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I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.
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As for 'drawing you out,' please believe I don't do such things deliberately, with an object -- It's only that I am, as a rule, far more interested in people than they are in me -- But it makes me a nuisance, I know: only an innocent nuisance.
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The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.
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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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Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
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At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world.
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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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