Share
×
Inspirational Quotes
Authors
Professions
Topics
Tags
Quote
You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.
Virginia Woolf
Share
Change background
T
T
T
Change font
Original
TAGS & TOPICS
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
Tools
Behinds
Behind
Carrying
Leave
Bridge
Art
Narrow
Hands
Bridges
Cannot
Cross
Must
Crosses
More quotes by Virginia Woolf
Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.
Virginia Woolf
The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.
Virginia Woolf
One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.
Virginia Woolf
But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came.
Virginia Woolf
But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.
Virginia Woolf
When she read just now to James, 'and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrums and trumpets,' and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should they grow up, and lose all that?
Virginia Woolf
He was a thorough good sort a bit limited a bit thick in the head yes but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way without a touch of imagination, without a sparkle of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type.
Virginia Woolf
O why do I ever let anyone read what I write! Every time I have to go through a breakfast with a letter of criticism I swear I will write for my own praise or blame in future. It is a misery.
Virginia Woolf
There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.
Virginia Woolf
It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
Virginia Woolf
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!
Virginia Woolf
Let us not take for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.
Virginia Woolf
As nobody can possibly tell me whether one's writing is bad or good, the only certain value is one's own pleasure. I am sure of that.
Virginia Woolf
Does housekeeping interest you at all? I think it really ought to be just as good as writing and I never see where the separation between the too comes in. At least if you must put books on one side and life on the other, each is a poor and bloodless thing but my theory is that they mix indistinguishable.
Virginia Woolf
Thinking is my fighting.
Virginia Woolf
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
Virginia Woolf
Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.
Virginia Woolf
I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.
Virginia Woolf
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!
Virginia Woolf
Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.
Virginia Woolf