Quote

I'm fundamentally, I think, an outsider. I do my best work and feel most braced with my back to the wall. It's an odd feeling though, writing aginst the current: difficult entirely to disregard the current. Yet of course I shall.

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
Thinking
Feelings
Entirely
Braced
Back
Wall
Outsider
Best
Shall
Disregard
Feel
Courses
Fundamentally
Feels
Course
Outsiders
Writing
Feeling
Odd
Work
Though
Current
Think
Difficult
Currents

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I am tied down with single words. But you wander off you slip away you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.
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I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said.
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All the months are crude experiments, out of which the perfect September is made.
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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
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When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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To sit and contemplate - to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy and yet content to remain where and what you are.
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To read a novel is a difficult and complex art.
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It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things trees, streams, flowers felt they expressed one felt they became one felt they knew one, in a sense were one felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.
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Disastrous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly demanded something heroic of human nature, but tragedies come in the hungry hours.
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Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.
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Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
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It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
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I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it.
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He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
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Thoughts without words… Can that be?
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It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole. This wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together
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What has praise and fame to do with poetry? Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice? So that all this chatter and praise, and blame and meeting people who admired one and meeting people who did not admire one was as ill suited as could be to the thing itself- a voice answering a voice.
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... why do people who live in the country always give themselves such airs?
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Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?
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