Virginia Woolf, nee Stephen, fully Adeline Virginia Woolf
Well, I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married.
What is more irritating than to see one’s subject, on whom one has lavished so much time and trouble, slipping out of one’s grasp altogether and indulging — witness her sighs and gasps, her flushing, her palings, her eyes now bright as lamps, now haggard as dawns — what is more humiliating than to see all this dumb show of emotion and excitement gone through before our eyes when we know that what causes it — thought and imagination — are of no importance whatsoever?
When I heard you cry I followed you, and saw you put down your handkerchief, screwed up, with its rage, with its hate, knotted in it.
Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
With stars in her eyes and veils in her hair, with cyclamen and wild violets—what nonsense was he thinking? She was fifty at least: she had eight children. Stepping through fields of flowers and taking to her breast buds that had broken and lambs that had fallen: with the stars in her eyes and the wind in her hair—He took her bag.
Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
You have neither wife nor child (without any sexual feeling, she longed to cherish that loneliness).
To let the light of the world flood back-to say this has not happened! But why turn one's head hither and thither? This is the truth. This is fact.
Tragedies come in the hungry hours.
We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.
Well, I’ve had my fun; I’ve had it, he thought, looking up at the swinging baskets of pale geraniums. And it was smashed to atoms—his fun, for it was half made up, as he knew very well; invented, this escapade with the girl; made up, as one makes up the better part of life, he thought—making onself up; making her up; creating an exquisite amusement, and something more. But odd it was, and quite true; all this one could never share—it smashed to atoms.
What is the meaning of life? That was all- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.
When London is a grass-grown path and all those hurrying along the pavement this Wednesday morning are but bones with a few wedding rings mixed up in their dust and the gold stoppings of innumerable decayed teeth.
Who shall measure the heat and violence of a poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
Yes, yes, I'm coming. Right up the top of the house. One moment I'll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind—what a swirl these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and a gain through the eyes one sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the one never meets again.
To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is...at last, to love it for what it is, and then to put it away.
Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.
We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.
What is this terror? What is this ecstasy, he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.
When people are happy they have a reserve upon which to draw, whereas she was like a wheel without a tyre
Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?
Without self-confidence we are as babes in the cradle. And how can we generate this imponderable quality, which is yet so invaluable, most quickly? By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself.