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The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
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
Ideas
Writing
Backbone
Attachment
Fierce
Philosophy
Idea
History
Art
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
Sir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.
Virginia Woolf
Dance music ... stirs some barbaric instinct - lulled asleep in our sober lives - you forget centuries of civilization in a second, & yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
Virginia Woolf
Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.
Virginia Woolf
Come indoors then, and open the books on your library shelves. For you have a library and a good one. A working library, a living library a library where nothing is chained down and nothing is locked up a library where the songs of the singers rise naturally from the lives of the livers.
Virginia Woolf
But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill his brain was perfect it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.
Virginia Woolf
My mind works in idleness. To do nothing is often my most profitable way.
Virginia Woolf
I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?
Virginia Woolf
All the months are crude experiments, out of which the perfect September is made.
Virginia Woolf
I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.
Virginia Woolf
By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream
Virginia Woolf
It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
Virginia Woolf
Illness is a part of every human being's experience. It enhances our perceptions and reduces self-consciousness. It is the great confessional things are said, truths are blurted out which health conceals.
Virginia Woolf
Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black, halfway down, in the darkness, in the shaft which ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhaps a tear formed a tear fell the waves swayed this way and that, received it, and were at rest. Never did anybody look so sad.
Virginia Woolf
All artists need a room of their own
Virginia Woolf
It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.
Virginia Woolf
Publicity in women is detestable. Anonymity runs in their blood. The desire to be veiled still possesses them. They are not even now as concerned about the health of their fame as men are, and, speaking generally, will pass a tombstone or a signpost without feeling an irresistible desire to cut their names on it.
Virginia Woolf
He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.
Virginia Woolf
I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
Virginia Woolf
It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly.
Virginia Woolf
Well, we must wait for the future to show.
Virginia Woolf
