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So the days pass, and I ask myself whether one is not hypnotized, as a child by a silver globe, by life, and whether this is living.

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
Children
Globes
Life
Silver
Pass
Days
Asks
Child
Whether
Hypnotized
Living
Globe

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Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.
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Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.
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A masterpiece is something said once and for all, stated, finished, so that it's there complete in the mind, if only at the back.
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But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
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For such will be our ruin if you, in the immensity of your public abstractions, forget the private figure, or if we in the intensity of our private emotions forget the public world. Both houses will be ruined, the public and the private, the material and the spiritual, for they are inseparably connected.
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Like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life.
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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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Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
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Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.
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To be silent to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
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She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.
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If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
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Lines slip easily down the accustomed grooves. The old designs are copied so glibly that we are half inclined to think them original, save for that very glibness.
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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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Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
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That great Cathedral space which was childhood.
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What is meant by reality? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable - now to be found in a dusty road, now in a scrap of newspaper in the street, now a daffodil in the sun. It lights up a group in a room and stamps some casual saying
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But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful.
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I spent an hour looking at pots and carpets in the museums the other day, until the desire to describe them became like the desire for the lusts of the flesh.
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