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For nothing was simply one thing.

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
Lighthouse
Simply
Nothing
Thing

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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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There is something I want-something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeper without knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed.
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If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.
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King old ladies assure us that cats are often the best judges of character. A cat will always to to a good man, they say.
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A thousand things to be written had I time: had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.
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He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.
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One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.
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The world is crammed with delightful things
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To be nothing - is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole 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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Disastrous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly demanded something heroic of human nature, but tragedies come in the hungry hours.
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Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.
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Wine has a drastic, an astringent taste. I cannot help wincing as I drink. Ascent of flowers, radiance and heat, are distilled here to a fiery, yellow liquid. Just behind my shoulder-blades some dry thing, wide-eyed, gently closes, gradually lulls itself to sleep. This is rapture. This is relief.
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Now, aged 50, I'm just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are.
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As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.
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Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame
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Jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind.
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If we didn't live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I've no doubt but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.
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So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.
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Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost. Life would split asunder without them. 'Come to tea, come to dinner, what's the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the capital is wonderful the Russian dancers....' These are our stays and props. These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe.
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