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Talents of the novelist: ... observation of character, analysis of emotion, people's feelings, personal relations.
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
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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
Relation
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More quotes by Virginia Woolf
The best letters of our time are precisely those that can never be published.
Virginia Woolf
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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O friendship, I too will press flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets!
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What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
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We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
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Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)
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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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To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable.
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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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The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.
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Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
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I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists the reality of everything.
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To sit and contemplate - to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy and yet content to remain where and what you are.
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For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.
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To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?…There is nobody—here among these grey arches, and moaning pigeons, and cheerful games and tradition and emulation, all so skilfully organised to prevent feeling alone.
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The way to write well is to live intensely.
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Yet there are moments when the walls of the mind grow thin when nothing is unabsorbed, and I could fancy that we might blow so vast a bubble that the sun might set and rise in it and we might take the blue of midday and the black of midnight and be cast off and escape from here and now.
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Words belong to each other.
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With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.
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I [who] am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement.
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