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When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.
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
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Short Story Writer
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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
Dispassionately
Argues
Arguing
Thinks
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Thinking
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Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
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It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
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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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She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.
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I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
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Jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind.
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You cannot lecture on really pure poetry any more than you can talk about the ingredients of pure water-it is adulterated, methylated, sanded poetry that makes the best lectures.
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Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
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I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.
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literature is the record of our discontent.
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Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.
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Fear no more, says the heart.
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To survive, each sentence must have, at its heart, a little spark of fire, and this, whatever the risk, the novelist must pluck with his own hands from the blaze.
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Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.
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Life's bare as a bone.
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But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
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She was like a crinkled poppy with the desire to drink dry dust.
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Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends could only read the title.
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... why do people who live in the country always give themselves such airs?
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How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?
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