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Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.

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
Without
Life
Ghostly
Affair
Illusion

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She thought there were no Gods no one was to blame and so she evolved this atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.
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The mind which is most capable of receiving impressions is very often the least capable of drawing conclusions.
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As for my next book, I won't write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.
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I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.
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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
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That complete statement which is literature.
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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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Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.
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Second hand books are wild books, homeless books they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack.
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I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.
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I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.
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At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world.
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I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?
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Above all you must illumine your own soul with its profundities and its shallows, and its vanities and its generosities, and say what your beauty means to you or your plainness, and what is your relation to the ever-changing and turning world.
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Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.
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So I have to create the whole thing afresh for myself each time. Probably all writers now are in the same boat. It is the penalty we pay for breaking with tradition, and the solitude makes the writing more exciting though the being read less so. One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with ones words.
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I was lying in bed this morning and saying to myself, 'the remarkable thing about Ethel is her stupendous self-satisfaction' when in came your letter to confirm this profound psychological observation. How delighted I was!
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I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
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I ride rough waters, and shall sink with no one to save me.
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You can't think how I depend on you, and when you're not there the colour goes out of my life.
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