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O how blessed it would be never to marry, or grow old but to spend one's life innocently and indifferently among the trees and rivers which alone can keep one cool and childlike in the midst of the troubles of the world!

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
Life
Grow
Midst
World
Tree
Trees
Trouble
Rivers
Grows
Cool
Indifferently
Alone
Blessed
Innocently
Keep
Childhood
Childlike
Never
Spend
Troubles
Would
Among
Marry

More quotes by Virginia Woolf

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That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions to be poor always and unkempt to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.
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Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.
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And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
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A good essay must have this permanent quality about it it must draw its curtain round us, but it must be a curtain that shuts us in not out.
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I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.
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But how entirely I live in my imagination how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.
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If we didn't live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I've no doubt but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.
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There was no treachery too base for the world to commit.
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... pure honesty is a doubtful quality it means often lack of imagination.
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Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?
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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
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I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
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He was a thorough good sort a bit limited a bit thick in the head yes but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way without a touch of imagination, without a sparkle of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type.
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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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Of course, literature is the only spiritual and humane career. Even painting tends to dumness, and music turns people erotic, whereas the more you write the nicer you become.
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I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.
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The eyes of others our prisons their thoughts our cages.
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Now the writer, I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of ... reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us.
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