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But how entirely I live in my imagination how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.

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
Thought
Walk
Churning
Live
Coming
Pageant
Mind
Walks
Pioneers
Things
Imagination
Perpetual
Happiness
Depend
Happy
Entirely
Upon
Completely
Making
Depends
Spurts

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Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.
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There are no teachers, saints, prophets, good people, but the artists.
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Most of a modest woman's life was spent, after all, in denying what, in one day at least of every year, was made obvious.
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I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married
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Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.
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But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
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I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual
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But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles.
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Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.
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He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.
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She fell into a deep pool of sticky water, which eventually closed over her head. She saw nothing and heard nothing but a faint booming sound, which was the sound of the sea rolling over her head. While all her tormentors thought that she was dead, she was not dead, but curled up at the bottom of the sea.
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A writer should give direct certainty explanations are so much water poured into the wine.
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Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.
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Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.
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Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
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Now the writer, I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of ... reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us.
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