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But what a little I can get down into my pen of what is so vivid to my eyes, and not only to my eyes also to some nervous fibre, or fanlike membrane in my species.

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
Pens
Nervous
Species
Eyes
Eye
Membrane
Also
Fibre
Littles
Membranes
Little
Vivid

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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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How remorseless life is!
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Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
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Publicity in women is detestable. Anonymity runs in their blood. The desire to be veiled still possesses them. They are not even now as concerned about the health of their fame as men are, and, speaking generally, will pass a tombstone or a signpost without feeling an irresistible desire to cut their names on it.
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Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall
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Love had a thousand shapes.
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Am I alone in my egotism when I say that never does the pale light of dawn filter through the blinds of 52 Tavistock Square but I open my eyes and exclaim, Good God! Here I am again! not always with pleasure, often with pain sometimes in a spasm.
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I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
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One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
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Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding and thought.
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...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
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If Shakespeare had never existed, he asked, would the world have differed much from what it is today? Does the progress of civilization depend upon great men? Is the lot of the average human being better now that in the time of the Pharaohs?
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It was strange to think that all the great women of fiction were, until Jane Austen's day, not only seen by the other sex, but seen only in relation to the other sex. And how small a part of woman's life is that.
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We insist, it seems, on living.
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Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!
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The older one grows, the more one likes indecency.
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There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.
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O why do I ever let anyone read what I write! Every time I have to go through a breakfast with a letter of criticism I swear I will write for my own praise or blame in future. It is a misery.
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When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.
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One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate suffering, or increase the breed of these lustful animals, who have no lasting emotions, but only whims and vanities, eddying them now this way, now that.
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