Quote

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.

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
Enjoy
Rain
House
Single
Order
Control
Ignorantly
Must
Courses
Helplessly
Course
Squander
Half
Powers
Freedom
Rivers
Water
Rose

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But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came.
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There is a sadness at the back of life which some people do not attempt to mitigate. Entirely aware of their own standing in the shadow, and yet alive to every tremor and gleam of existence, there they endure.
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I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
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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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Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.
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Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.
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Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
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She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete, would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long voyage, this interminable --- this interminable life.
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I grow numb I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?
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The mind of an artist, in order to achieve the prodigious effort of freeing whole and entire the work that is in him, must be incandescent...there must be no obstacle in it, no foreign matter unconsumed.
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It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul never to be content quite, or quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred.
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Life stand still here.
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And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.
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After all, what is a lovely phrase? One that has mopped up as much Truth as it can hold.
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Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.
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Tragedies come in the hungry hours.
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Disastrous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly demanded something heroic of human nature, but tragedies come in the hungry hours.
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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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It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.
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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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