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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.

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
Person
Imagine
Splendid
Mean
Existence
Heroic
Great
Written
Extreme
Even
Greater
Extremes
Would
Woman
Various
Sordid
Men
Beautiful
Save
Utmost
Think
Women
Importance
Hideous
Thinking
Persons
Fiction
Infinitely

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So that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again.
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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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And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is a woman's whole existence.
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One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy.
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The root of things, what they were all afraid of saying, was that happiness is dirt cheap. You can have it for nothing. Beauty.
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war is a man's game ... the killing machine has a gender and it is male.
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For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think well not even to think. To be silent to be alone.
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Does Nature supplement what man advanced? Or does she complete what he began?
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and then he could not see her come into a room without a sense of the flowing of robes, of the flowering of blossoms, of the purple waves of the sea, of all things that are lovely and mutable on the surface but still and passionate in their heart.
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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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Why is life so tragic so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down I feel giddy I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.
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If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.
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As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.
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Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? All this must go on without her did she resent it or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?
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To survive, each sentence must have, at its heart, a little spark of fire, and this, whatever the risk, the novelist must pluck with his own hands from the blaze.
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Where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.
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Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.
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Illness is a part of every human being's experience. It enhances our perceptions and reduces self-consciousness. It is the great confessional things are said, truths are blurted out which health conceals.
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... pure honesty is a doubtful quality it means often lack of imagination.
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After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.
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