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Henry James seems most entirely in his element, doing that is to say what everything favors his doing, when it is a question of recollection. The mellow light which swims over the past, the beauty which suffuses even the commonest little figures of that

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
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Commonest
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Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall
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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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First a warning, musical then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.
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Fear no more, says the heart.
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Would there be trees if we didn't see them?
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Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
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The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
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With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
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Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
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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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Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
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There is the strange power we have of changing facts by the force of the imagination.
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Indeed, I thought, slipping the silver into my purse, it is remarkable, remembering the bitterness of those days, what a change of temper a fixed income will bring about.
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Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.
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I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
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And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
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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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The way to write well is to live intensely.
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Lock up your libraries if you like but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
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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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