Quote

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

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He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.
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There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.
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Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.
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Once you begin to take yourself seriously as a leader or as a follower, as a modern or as a conservative, then you become a self-conscious, biting, and scratching little animal whose work is not of the slightest value or importance to anybody.
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It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.
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Men felt a chill in their hearts a damp in their minds. In a desperate effort to snuggle their feelings into some sort of warmth,one subterfuge was tried after anothersentences swelled, adjectives multiplied, lyrics became epics.
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When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.
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A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.
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Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat's or she purred.
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And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
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Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.
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Jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind.
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Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
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But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful.
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The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty observations, has a romance of its own.
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[Final diary entry:] Occupation is essential. And now with some pleasure I find that it's seven and must cook dinner. Haddock and sausage meat. I think it is true that one gains a certain hold on sausage and haddock by writing them down.
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At one and the same time, therefore, society is everything and society is nothing. Society is the most powerful concoction in the world and society has no existence whatsoever
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The weight of the world is on our shoulders, its vision is through our eyes if we blink or look aside, or turn back to finger what Plato said or remember Napoleon and his conquests, we inflict on the world the injury of some obliquity. This is life.
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Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
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And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky.
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