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To admit authorities, however heavily furred and gowned, into our libraries and let them tell us how to read, what to read, what value to place upon what we read, is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries.

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
Upon
Breaths
Furred
Read
Destroy
Sanctuaries
Tell
Library
Authorities
Spirit
However
Libraries
Place
Authority
Heavily
Value
Sanctuary
Values
Admit
Freedom
Breath

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Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
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As a creator of character his peculiarity is that he creates wherever his eyes rest ... With such a power at his command Dickens made his books blaze up, not by tightening the plot or sharpening the wit, but by throwing another handful of people upon the fire.
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How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.
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Middlemarch, the magnificent book which with all its imperfections is one of the few English novels for grown-up people.
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And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
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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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What is amusing now had to be taken in desperate earnest once.
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The artist after all is a solitary being.
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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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So the days pass, and I ask myself whether one is not hypnotized, as a child by a silver globe, by life, and whether this is living.
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letters are venerable and the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps - who knows? - we might talk by the way.
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To love makes one solitary.
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It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
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. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.
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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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It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.
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I believe that the main thing in beginning a novel is to feel, not that you can write it, but that it exists on the far side of a gulf, which words can't cross: that it's to be pulled through only in a breathless anguish.
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Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world.
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Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.
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To be nothing - is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?
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