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But I don't think of the future, or the past, I feast on the moment. This is the secret of happiness, but only reached now in middle age.

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
Past
Reached
Think
Middle
Thinking
Secret
Age
Happiness
Future
Moment
Moments
Feast

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I attain a different kind of beauty, achieve a symmetry by means of infinite discords, showing all the traces of the mind's passage through the world, achieve in the end some kind of whole made of shivering fragments.
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To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.
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Methinks the human method of expression by sound of tongue is very elementary, and ought to be substituted for some ingenious invention which should be able to give vent to at least six coherent sentences at once.
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The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.
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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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Mental fight means thinking against the current, not with it. It is our business to puncture gas bags and discover seeds of truth.
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What is amusing now had to be taken in desperate earnest once.
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That complete statement which is literature.
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To be silent to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
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Life's bare as a bone.
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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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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.
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The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine My thoughts follow the exact same process.
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Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends could only read the title.
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Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit 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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It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things trees, streams, flowers felt they expressed one felt they became one felt they knew one, in a sense were one felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.
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Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.
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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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One should be a painter. As a writer, I feel the beauty, which is almost entirely colour, very subtle, very changeable, running over my pen, as if you poured a large jug of champagne over a hairpin.
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