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It is from the middle class that writers spring, because, it is in the middle class only that the practice of writing is as natural and habitual as hoeing a field or building a house.

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
Practice
Habitual
Natural
Field
House
Writers
Writing
Spring
Fields
Building
Middle
Class
Hoeing

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Love ought to stop on both sides, don’t you think, simultaneously?’ He spoke without any stress on the words, so as not to wake the sleepers. ‘But it won’t - that’s the devil,’ he added in the same undertone.
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I am rooted, but I flow.
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Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
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Language is wine upon the lips.
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I press to my centre, and find there is something there.
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Theories then are dangerous things.
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The habit of writing for my eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.
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Let us not take for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.
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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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A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
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Once you begin to take yourself seriously as a leader or as a follower, as a modern or as a conservative, then you become a self-conscious, biting, and scratching little animal whose work is not of the slightest value or importance to anybody.
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Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
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How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?
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Men felt a chill in their hearts a damp in their minds. In a desperate effort to snuggle their feelings into some sort of warmth,one subterfuge was tried after anothersentences swelled, adjectives multiplied, lyrics became epics.
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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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Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them.
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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.
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Facts must be manipulated some must be brightened others shaded yet, in the process, they must never lose their integrity.
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The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
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