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
poetry poet beacons-of-light
Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.
heart numbness break
I grow numb; I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?
two imagination facts
Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction; the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.
feelings perception brain
The proper stuff of fiction' does not exist; everything is the proper stuff of fiction, every feeling, every thought; every quality of brain and spirit is drawn upon; no perception comes amiss.
looks littles pavement
Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.
letters our-time
The best letters of our time are precisely those that can never be published.
writing garden rose
You have a touch in letter writing that is beyond me. Something unexpected, like coming round a corner in a rose garden and finding it still daylight.
jealousy passion mankind
jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind ...
ideas wings nails
Unless you catch ideas on the wing and nail them down, you will soon cease to have any.
honesty fishing morality
fishing teaches a stern morality; inculcates a remorseless honesty.
fishing differences race
the profound difference that divides the human race is a question of bait - whether to fish with worms or not ...
fragments reconcile seasons
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
world mrs-dalloway raised
The world has raised its whip; where will it descend?
writing attachment play
Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible; Shakespeare's plays, for instance, seem to hang there complete by themselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in midair by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to the grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in.