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

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Yet there are moments when the walls of the mind grow thin when nothing is unabsorbed, and I could fancy that we might blow so vast a bubble that the sun might set and rise in it and we might take the blue of midday and the black of midnight and be cast off and escape from here and now.
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I [who] am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement.
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All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds.
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For nothing was simply one thing.
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On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.
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it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
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When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
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Nothing, I know, had any chance against death.
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I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me lighted rooms.
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Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness dull, callous, and indifferent.
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I will go down with my colours flying.
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I like to have space to spread my mind out in.
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Nothing shakes my opinion of a book. Nothing -- nothing. Only perhaps if it's the book of a young person -- or of a friend -- no, even so, I think myself infallible.
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Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
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Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.
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She thought there were no Gods no one was to blame and so she evolved this atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.
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The compensation of growing old ... was simply this that the passion remains as strong as ever, but one has gained -- at last! -- the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence -- the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.
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I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.
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Fear no more, says the heart.
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No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
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