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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
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Essayist
Feminist
Literary Critic
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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
Child
Whether
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She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.
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... if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.
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Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.
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They lack suggestive power. And when a book lacks suggestive power, however hard it hits the surface of the mind it cannot penetrate within.
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But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.
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But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter!
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Just in case you ever foolishly forget I'm never not thinking of you
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The profound difference that divides the human race is a question of bait - whether to fish with worms or not.
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I find that when I've seen a certain number of people my mind becomes like an old match box -- the part one strikes on, I mean.
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I grow numb I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?
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The mind which is most capable of receiving impressions is very often the least capable of drawing conclusions.
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All extremes are dangerous.
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Peter would think her sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying – what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt.
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Women alone stir my imagination.
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Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
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Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.
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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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The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.
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One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.
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One must learn to be silent just as one must learn to talk.
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