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scarcely a human being in the course of history has fallen to a woman's rifle the vast majority of birds and beasts have been killed by you, not by us. Obviously there is for you some glory, some necessity, some satisfaction in fighting which we have never felt or enjoyed.

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
Never
Courses
Fallen
Rifles
Course
Enjoyed
Beasts
Fighting
Obviously
Scarcely
Woman
Satisfaction
Birds
History
Bird
Beast
Felt
Majority
Necessity
Human
Glory
Vast
Humans
Violence
Killed
Rifle

More quotes by Virginia Woolf

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It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
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She began framing the words of her telegram into a senseless singsong so that several park keepers looked at her with suspicion and were only brought to a favourable opinion of her sanity by noticing the pearl necklace which she wore.
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But words have been used too often touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.
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I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens.
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With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
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In the 18th century we knew how everything was done, but here I rise through the air, I listen to voices in America, I see men flying- but how is it done? I can't even begin to wonder. So my belief in magic returns.
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Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?
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I attain a different kind of beauty, achieve a symmetry by means of infinite discords, showing all the traces of the mind's passage through the world, achieve in the end some kind of whole made of shivering fragments.
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She dares me to pour myself out like a living waterfall. She dares me to enter the soul that is more than my own she extinguishes fear in mere seconds. She lets light come through.
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There is a coherence in things, a stability something... is immune from change and shines out... in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby.
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Only longing can fill with more of itself.
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I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.
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And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.
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She came into a room she stood, as he had often seen her, in a doorway with lots of people round her. But it was Clarissa one remembered. Not that she was striking not beautiful at all there was nothing picturesque about her she never said anything specially clever there she was however there she was.
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Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.
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Was there no safety? No learning by heart of the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life?--startling, unexpected, unknown?
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A masterpiece is something said once and for all, stated, finished, so that it's there complete in the mind, if only at the back.
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Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.
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The world was going on as usual. All the time she was writing the world had continued.
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The weight of the world is on our shoulders, its vision is through our eyes if we blink or look aside, or turn back to finger what Plato said or remember Napoleon and his conquests, we inflict on the world the injury of some obliquity. This is life.
Virginia Woolf