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But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came.

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
Life
Become
Notice
Back
Accept
Wanted
Accepting
Everything
Came
Must
Lying
Mind
Whatever
Think
Force
Quietly
Thinking
Thought
Blank

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Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.
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Oh, but she never wanted James to grow a day older or Cam either. These two she would have liked to keep for ever just as the way they were, demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never to see them grow up into long-legged monsters.
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Wat a vast fertility of pleasure books hold for me! I went in and found the table laden with books. I looked in and sniffed them all. I could not resist carrying this one off and broaching it. I think I could happily live here and read forever.
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The mind which is most capable of receiving impressions is very often the least capable of drawing conclusions.
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Though we see the same world, we see it through different eyes. Any help we can give you must be different from that you can give yourselves, and perhaps the value of that help may lie in the fact of that difference.
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She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.
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So I have to create the whole thing afresh for myself each time. Probably all writers now are in the same boat. It is the penalty we pay for breaking with tradition, and the solitude makes the writing more exciting though the being read less so. One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with ones words.
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We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.
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One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.
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Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.
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It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
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Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day
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What a lark! What a plunge!
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It would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare.
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My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.
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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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I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.
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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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The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.
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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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