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
frivolous ifs
Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.
life lamps envelopes
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
people silence sublime
I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
book sleep talking
Nothing could be slow enough, nothing lasts too long. No pleasure could equal, she thought, straightening the chairs, pushing in one book on the shelf, this having done with the triumphs of youth, lost herself in the process of living, to find it with a shock of delight, as the sun rose, as the day sank. Many a time had she gone, at Barton when they were all talking, to look at the sky; seen it between peoples shoulders at dinner; seen it in London when she could not sleep. She walked to the window.
past feet giving
With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.
inspirational-life healing flow
I am rooted, but I flow.
fragments reconcile seasons
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
reality tea cups-of-tea
Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.
writing people silence
I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.
philosophy medicine skins
When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
pain together tears
For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.
lonely heart moon
I went from one to the other holding my sorrow - no, not my sorrow but the incomprehensible nature of this our life - for their inspection. Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken - I to whom there is no beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely.
life shade too-short
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
beautiful winter voice
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.