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But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles.

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
Writing
Misses
Mind
Thus
Good
Missing
Never
Habit
Practice
Belief
Point
Loosens
Eye
Stumbles

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The chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much-talked-of-man.
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But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
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If you insist upon fighting to protect me, or 'our' country, let it be understood soberly and rationally between us that you are fighting to gratify a sex instinct which I cannot share to procure benefits where I have not shared and probably will not share.
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Life would split apart without letters.
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I need not hate any man he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man he has nothing to give me.
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You have a touch in letter writing that is beyond me. Something unexpected, like coming round a corner in a rose garden and finding it still daylight.
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I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.
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It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, both to fight and to have ideals.
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Orlando naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.
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and then he could not see her come into a room without a sense of the flowing of robes, of the flowering of blossoms, of the purple waves of the sea, of all things that are lovely and mutable on the surface but still and passionate in their heart.
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We insist, it seems, on living.
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You can't think how I depend on you, and when you're not there the colour goes out of my life.
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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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As for my next book, I won't write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.
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He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.
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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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These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.
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