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I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.

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
Terrified
Passive
Intensity
Live
Acquiescence

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It would be a thousand pities if women wrote like men, or lived like men, or looked like men, for if two sexes are quite inadequate, considering the vastness and variety of the world, how should we manage with one only? Ought not education to bring out and fortify the differences rather than the similarities?
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Intimacy is a difficult art.
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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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Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.
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Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.
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When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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I am tied down with single words. But you wander off you slip away you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.
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What is a woman? I assure you, I do not know ... I do not believe that anybody can know until she has expressed herself in all the arts and professions open to human skill.
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It doesn't have to be the truth, just your vision of it, written down.
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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
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Nothing, I know, had any chance against death.
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To be silent to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
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One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.
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Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.
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Alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity a freedom which the attached can never know
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So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball
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But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill his brain was perfect it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.
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The thing about Proust is his combination of the utmost sensibility with the utmost tenacity. He searches out these butterfly shades to the last grain. He is as tough as catgut and as evanescent as a butterfly's bloom.
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Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day
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