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

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O how blessed it would be never to marry, or grow old but to spend one's life innocently and indifferently among the trees and rivers which alone can keep one cool and childlike in the midst of the troubles of the world!
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Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
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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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Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.
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Nothing shakes my opinion of a book. Nothing -- nothing. Only perhaps if it's the book of a young person -- or of a friend -- no, even so, I think myself infallible.
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Madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does.
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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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So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball
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For it is a curious fact that though human beings have such imperfect means of communication, that they can only say 'good to eat' when they mean 'beautiful' and the other way about, they will yet endure ridicule and misunderstanding rather than keep any experience to themselves.
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I'm fundamentally, I think, an outsider. I do my best work and feel most braced with my back to the wall. It's an odd feeling though, writing aginst the current: difficult entirely to disregard the current. Yet of course I shall.
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I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.
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Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.
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She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.
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There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.
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Why, he wondered, did people who had been asleep always want to make out that they were extremely wide-awake?
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