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Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.
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
England
Known
House
Padded
Women
Stately
Home
Comfortably
Asylums
Lunatic
Homes
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Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
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If people are highly successful in their profession they lose their senses. Sight goes. They have no time to look at pictures. Sound goes. They have no time to listen to music. Speech goes. They have no time for conversation. They lose their sense of proportion.
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[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.
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To love makes one solitary.
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Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.
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Finally, I would thank, had I not lost his name and address, a gentleman in America, who has generously and gratuitously corrected the punctuation, the botany, the entomology, the geography, and the chronology of previous works of mine and will, I hope, not spare his services on the present occasion.
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Safe! safe! safe!' the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry 'Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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Nothing is stronger than the position of the dead among the living.
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He looked very old. He looked, James thought, getting his head now against the Lighthouse, now against the waste of waters running away into the open, like some old stone lying on the sand he looked as if he had become physically what was always at the back of both of their minds-that loneliness which was for both of them the truth about things.
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If only she could put them together, she felt, write them out in some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things.
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I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said.
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The root of things, what they were all afraid of saying, was that happiness is dirt cheap. You can have it for nothing. Beauty.
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But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful.
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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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Fear no more, says the heart.
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The mind of an artist, in order to achieve the prodigious effort of freeing whole and entire the work that is in him, must be incandescent...there must be no obstacle in it, no foreign matter unconsumed.
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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?
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There are no teachers, saints, prophets, good people, but the artists.
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The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.
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One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.
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