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I will dream today for I must unscrew my head somehow.
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
Unscrew
Somehow
Head
Dream
Today
Must
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The poet is always our contemporary.
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I like to have space to spread my mind out in.
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A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one
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She was like a crinkled poppy with the desire to drink dry dust.
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...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
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Wat a vast fertility of pleasure books hold for me! I went in and found the table laden with books. I looked in and sniffed them all. I could not resist carrying this one off and broaching it. I think I could happily live here and read forever.
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But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
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I press to my centre, and find there is something there.
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
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I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.
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When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.
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I like the unreality of your mind the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
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The older one grows, the more one likes indecency.
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Use words that soak up life.
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One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy.
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One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
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Women have sat indoors all these millions of years, so that by this time the very walls are permeated by their creative force, which has, indeed, so overcharged the capacity of bricks and mortar that it must needs harness itself to pens and brushes and business and politics.
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Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.
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Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.
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