Quote

I am obsessed at nights with the idea of my own worthlessness, and if it were only to turn a light on to save my life I think I would not do it. These are the last footprints of a headache I suppose. Do you ever feel that? - like an old weed in a stream. What do you feel, lying in bed?

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
Life
Light
Save
Headache
Like
Ideas
Turn
Stream
Ever
Lying
Nights
Feel
Turns
Weed
Feels
Lasts
Streams
Would
Last
Obsessed
Worthlessness
Think
Idea
Suppose
Footprints
Thinking
Night
Bed
Footprint

More quotes by Virginia Woolf

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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.
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All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds.
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The compensation of growing old ... was simply this that the passion remains as strong as ever, but one has gained -- at last! -- the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence -- the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.
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It doesn't have to be the truth, just your vision of it, written down.
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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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But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles.
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Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
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The truer the facts the better the fiction.
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Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.
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Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
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Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.
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I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me lighted rooms.
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Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
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Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
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For the young people could not talk. And why should they? Shout, embrace, swing, be up at dawn.
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Dance music ... stirs some barbaric instinct - lulled asleep in our sober lives - you forget centuries of civilization in a second, & yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
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Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends could only read the title.
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After all, what is a lovely phrase? One that has mopped up as much Truth as it can hold.
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And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is a woman's whole existence.
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Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure
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