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Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.

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
Rooms
Strange
Whirling
Passion
Madly
Sends
Yield
Round
Rounds
Room

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I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.
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Why have I so little control? It is the case of much waste and pain in my life.
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What is amusing now had to be taken in desperate earnest once.
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There is something about the present which we would not exchange, though we were offered a choice of all past ages to live in.
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Like all very handsome men who die tragically, he left not so much a character behind him as a legend. Youth and death shed a halo through which it is difficult to see a real face.
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Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
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... if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.
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When the Day of Judgment dawns and people, great and small, come marching in to receive their heavenly rewards, the Almighty will gaze upon the mere bookworms and say to Peter, “Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them. They have loved reading.
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The poet is always our contemporary.
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And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.
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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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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
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It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
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As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
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Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
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People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.
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Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.
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Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
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