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The artist after all is a solitary being.
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
Artist
Solitary
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall
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I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said.
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The world is crammed with delightful things
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Just in case you ever foolishly forget I'm never not thinking of you
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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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Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
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With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.
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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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One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.
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letters are venerable and the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps - who knows? - we might talk by the way.
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My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
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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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After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.
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Was there no safety? No learning by heart of the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life?--startling, unexpected, unknown?
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About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.
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But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came.
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Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.
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There'll be oceans of talk and emotions without end.
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This soul, or life within us, by no means agrees with the life outside us. If one has the courage to ask her what she thinks, she is always saying the very opposite to what other people say.
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It would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare.
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