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Unless you catch ideas on the wing and nail them down, you will soon cease to have any.
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
Cease
Wings
Soon
Unless
Ideas
Nail
Nails
Wing
Catch
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
What is a woman? I assure you, I do not know ... I do not believe that anybody can know until she has expressed herself in all the arts and professions open to human skill.
Virginia Woolf
Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.
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Why have I so little control? It is the case of much waste and pain in my life.
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Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
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When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.
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Like all very handsome men who die tragically, he left not so much a character behind him as a legend. Youth and death shed a halo through which it is difficult to see a real face.
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A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run through the body with his pen.
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By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
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Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
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Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
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The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.
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When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
Virginia Woolf
The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine My thoughts follow the exact same process.
Virginia Woolf
literature is the record of our discontent.
Virginia Woolf
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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Only longing can fill with more of itself.
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How can I express the darkness?
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It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life.
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I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.
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Often on a wet day I begin counting up what I've read what I haven't read.
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