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The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine My thoughts follow the exact same process.
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
Follow
Varies
Thoughts
Fog
Process
Vary
Exact
Pale
Sunshine
Weather
Heavy
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
That great Cathedral space which was childhood.
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Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.
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I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.
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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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When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.
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Have you any notion how many books are written about women in the course of one year? Have you any notion how many are written by men? Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?
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So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball
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Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
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But what a little I can get down into my pen of what is so vivid to my eyes, and not only to my eyes also to some nervous fibre, or fanlike membrane in my species.
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Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
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For we think back through our mothers if we are women.
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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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The weight of the world is on our shoulders, its vision is through our eyes if we blink or look aside, or turn back to finger what Plato said or remember Napoleon and his conquests, we inflict on the world the injury of some obliquity. This is life.
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They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought.
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O friendship, I too will press flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets!
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Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.
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By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
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To know whom to write for is to know how to write.
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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
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But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
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