Quote

We seem to be riding on the top of the highest mast of the tallest ship and yet at the same time we know that nothing of this sort matters love is not proved thus, nor great achievements completed thus so that we sport with the moment and preen our feathers in it lightly.

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
Time
Sort
Riding
Tallest
Love
Sports
Ships
Masts
Moment
Sport
Completed
Moments
Thus
Lightly
Seems
Achievement
Achievements
Nothing
Matters
Feathers
Matter
Highest
Proved
Great
Seem
Ship
Mast

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Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
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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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Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day
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Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.
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Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.
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letters are venerable and the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps - who knows? - we might talk by the way.
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If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasure - the relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it truthfully?
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With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
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In fact, though their acquaintance had been so short, they had guessed, as always happens between lovers, everything of any importance about each other in two seconds at the utmost, and it now remained only to fill in such unimportant details as what they were called where they lived and whether they were beggars or people of substance.
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Now, aged 50, I'm just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are.
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Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.
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The artist after all is a solitary being.
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Tragedies come in the hungry hours.
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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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Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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Whenever you see a board up with Trespassers will be prosecuted, trespass at once.
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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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To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.
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Women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems.
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