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We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.

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
Must
Reconcile
Fragments
Failures
Season
Seasons

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I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.
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There is a sadness at the back of life which some people do not attempt to mitigate. Entirely aware of their own standing in the shadow, and yet alive to every tremor and gleam of existence, there they endure.
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The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.
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I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said.
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How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?
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For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think well not even to think. To be silent to be alone.
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The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.
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We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.
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My mind turned by anxiety, or other cause, from its scrutiny of blank paper, is like a lost child–wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry.
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Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.
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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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Like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life.
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I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
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If this were the time or the place to uphold a paradox, I am half inclined to state that Norfolk is one of the most beautiful of counties.
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Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.
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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
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She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete, would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long voyage, this interminable --- this interminable life.
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To read a novel is a difficult and complex art.
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