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O why do I ever let anyone read what I write! Every time I have to go through a breakfast with a letter of criticism I swear I will write for my own praise or blame in future. It is a misery.

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
Anyone
Letter
Future
Swear
Read
Breakfast
Write
Misery
Ever
Letters
Writing
Blame
Every
Criticism
Time
Praise

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Happily, at forty-six I still feel as experimental and on the verge of getting at the truth as ever.
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The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
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Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat's or she purred.
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We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
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Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
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to write a novel in the heart of London is next to an impossibility. I feel as if I were nailing a flag to the top of a mast in a raging gale.
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Like and like and like--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?
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It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life.
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My mind turned by anxiety, or other cause, from its scrutiny of blank paper, is like a lost child–wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry.
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What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.
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Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action.
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Soup is cuisines kindest course
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For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
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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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I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
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But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
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Still, life had a way of adding day to day
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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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Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.
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more and more I come to loathe any dominion of one over another any leadership, any imposition of the will.
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