Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Adeline Virginia Woolf, known professionally as Virginia Woolf, was an English writer and one of the foremost modernists of the twentieth century...
NationalityBritish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth25 January 1882
CityLondon, England
life dream hair
There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.
inspirational honesty lying
If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
inspirational needs sparkle
No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
book healing hands
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.
self goes-on
A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.
love romantic stars
I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.
sky mood
I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.
war character doors
We read Charlotte Bronte not for exquisite observation of character, not for comedy, not for a philosophic view of life, but for her poetry. Probably that is so with all writers who have, as she has, an overpowering personality, so that . . . they only have to open the door to make themselves felt. There is in them some untamed ferocity perpetually at war with the accepted order of things.
skins shadow feels
I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
feminist telling-the-truth
A feminist is any woman who tells the truth about her life
heart light treasure
Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
coffee sea knives
How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
wise mother men
When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
havens
Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.