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women have always been poor, not for two hundred years merely, but from the beginning of time. ... Women, then, have not had a dog's chance of writing poetry. That is why I have laid so much stress on money and a room of one's own.

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
Money
Dog
Two
Beginning
Women
Hundred
Writing
Poetry
Much
Room
Years
Rooms
Laid
Always
Chance
Stress
Time
Poor
Merely

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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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Like and like and like--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?
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I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.
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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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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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There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.
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The habit of writing for my eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.
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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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Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.
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I want to write a novel about Silence, he said “the things people don’t say.
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There can be no two opinions as to what a highbrow is. He is the man or woman of thoroughbred intelligence who rides his mind at a gallop across country in pursuit of an idea.
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It is useless to read Greek in translation translators can but offer us a vague equivalent.
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.
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Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.
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for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge
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Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.
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