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
feelings critical-moments machines
It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling; it always broke down at the critical moment; heroically, one must force it on.
summer moon sky
And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky.
way sun hot
Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day
communication self two
For it is probable that when people talk aloud, the selves (of which there may be more than two thousand) are conscious of disserverment, and are trying to communicate but when communication is established there is nothing more to be said.
way suicide-note ifs
You have been in every way all that anyone could be.... If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.
beautiful eye winter
But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter!
heart soul shadow
Sir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.
garden islands bird
She tapped on the window with her embossed hairbrush. They were too far off to hear. The drone of the trees was in their ears; the chirp of birds; other incidents of garden life, inaudible, invisible to her in the bedroom, absorbed them. Isolated on a green island, hedged about with snowdrops, laid with a counterpane of puckered silk, the innocent island floated under her window. Only George lagged behind.
fighting thinking chaos
Thinking is my fighting.
darkness chaos
How can I express the darkness?
artist rooms needs
All artists need a room of their own
tree
And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves.
sea water depth
The depths of the sea are only water after all.
thinking treasure common
The immense success of our life is, I think, that our treasure is hid away; or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.