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Now, aged 50, I'm just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are.

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
Forth
Straight
Quite
Age
Poised
Whatever
Bolts
Free
Aged
Time
Shoot
Aging

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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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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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But Time, unfortunately, though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and fade with amazing punctuality has no such simple effect upon the mind of man.
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Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
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Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.
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For the film maker must come by his convention, as painters and writers and musicians have done before him.
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Art is not a copy of the real world one of the damn things is enough.
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Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?
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How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.
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The interest in life does not lie in what people do, nor even in their relations to each other, but largely in the power to communicate with a third party, antagonistic, enigmatic, yet perhaps persuadable, which one may call life in general.
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No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.
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To enjoy freedom ... we have of course to control ourselves. We must not squander our powers, helplessly and ignorantly, squirting half the house in order to water a single rose.
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I feel certain that I'm going mad again, I feel we can't go thru another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices
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The hatchet must fall on the block the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I.
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But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.
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To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is...at last, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away.
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But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter!
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Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.
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I mean it's the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
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I don't believe that you can possibly separate expression from thought in an imaginative work. The better a thing is expressed, the more completely it is thought.
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