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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.
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
Deep
Marks
Wonder
Imaginary
Lasts
Transition
Last
Shut
Back
Breath
Book
Breaths
Sharply
Real
Lays
Expressive
Always
Mark
Drew
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
For women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places.
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We insist, it seems, on living.
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Women alone stir my imagination.
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I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married
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Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
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For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.
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For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.
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And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky.
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They went in and out of each other's minds without any effort.
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These are the soul's changes. I don't believe in ageing. I believe in forever altering one's aspect to the sun. Hence my optimism.
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If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy.
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Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.
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The most extraordinary thing about writing is that when you've struck the right vein, tiredness goes. It must be an effort, thinking wrong.
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Orlando naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.
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Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.
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. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.
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How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?
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No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes
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How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.
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The compensation of growing old ... was simply this that the passion remains as strong as ever, but one has gained -- at last! -- the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence -- the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.
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