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I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

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
Anything
Varieties
Enough
Arrows
Feel
Dull
Feels
Variety
Sadness
Anger
Head
Clear

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Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.
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If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of utmost importance very various heroic and mean splendid and sordid infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme as great as a man some think even greater.
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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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I will go down with my colours flying.
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No passion is stronger in the breast of man than the desire to make others believe as he believes
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Come indoors then, and open the books on your library shelves. For you have a library and a good one. A working library, a living library a library where nothing is chained down and nothing is locked up a library where the songs of the singers rise naturally from the lives of the livers.
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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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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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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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... the random talk of people who have no chance of immortality and thus can speak their minds out has a setting, often, of lights, streets, houses, human beings, beautiful or grotesque, which will weave itself into the moment for ever.
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writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.
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I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it.
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For nothing was simply one thing.
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I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.
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She was like a crinkled poppy with the desire to drink dry dust.
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When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
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