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There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.
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
Getting
Writing
Unfortunately
Liked
Letters
Remains
Passion
Gone
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For there is a virtue in truth it has an almost mystic power. Like radium, it seems to give off forever and ever grains of energy, atoms of light.
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That great Cathedral space which was childhood.
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Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.
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So coming back from a journey, or after an illness, before habits had spun themselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was so startling felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then.
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On or about December 1910, human character changed.
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I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
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But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
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I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate suffering, or increase the breed of these lustful animals, who have no lasting emotions, but only whims and vanities, eddying them now this way, now that.
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writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.
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I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
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Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.
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Life's bare as a bone.
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Orlando naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.
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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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You cannot lecture on really pure poetry any more than you can talk about the ingredients of pure water-it is adulterated, methylated, sanded poetry that makes the best lectures.
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Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.
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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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Let a man get up and say, Behold, this is the truth, and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background. Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.
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old emotions like old families have intermarried and have many connections.
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