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if newspapers were written by people whose sole object in writing was to tell the truth about politics and the truth about art we should not believe in war, and we should believe in art.

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
Writing
Whose
Believe
Objects
People
Written
Politics
War
Tell
Sole
Art
Newspapers
Truth
Object

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Half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves but to make people think this or that perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.
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... the public and the private worlds are inseparably connected ... the tyrannies and servilities of the one are the tyrannies and servilities of the other.
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It is equally vain,” she thought, “for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think I can worship you. The light of truth beats upon us without shadow, and the light of truth is damnably unbecoming to us both.
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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.
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But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
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Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.
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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!
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As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
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Madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does.
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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 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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Some people go to priests others to poetry I to my friends.
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To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have- to want and want- how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!
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Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.
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One should aim, seriously, at disregarding ups and downs a compliment here, silence there ... the central fact remains stable, which is the fact of my own pleasure in the art.
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And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is a woman's whole existence.
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A biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many as a thousand.
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I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
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One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy.
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But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.
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