Virginia Woolf Quotes
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The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.
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Literature is no one’s private ground, literature is common ground; let us trespass freely and fearlessly and find our own way for ourselves.
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
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One must love everything.
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Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation.
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Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)
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Finally, I would thank, had I not lost his name and address, a gentleman in America, who has generously and gratuitously corrected the punctuation, the botany, the entomology, the geography, and the chronology of previous works of mine and will, I hope, not spare his services on the present occasion.
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My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
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Middlemarch, the magnificent book which with all its imperfections is one of the few English novels for grown-up people.
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But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.
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So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. But to sacrifice a hair of the head of your vision, a shade of its colour, in deference to some Headmaster with a silver pot in his hand or to some professor with a measuring-rod up his sleeve, is the most abject treachery, and the sacrifice of wealth and chastity which used to be said to be the greatest of human disasters, a mere flea-bite in comparison.
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Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?
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In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
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I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married
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No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
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A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one
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I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
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I am rooted, but I flow.
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How remorseless life is!
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It is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed any longer.
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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.
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The Lighthouse was then a silvery, misty-looking tower with a yellow eye, that opened suddenly, and softly in the evening. Now— James looked at the Lighthouse. He could see the white-washed rocks; the tower, stark and straight; he could see that it was barred with black and white; he could see windows in it; he could even see washing spread on the rocks to dry. So that was the Lighthouse, was it? No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For nothing was simply one thing. The other Lighthouse was true too.
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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.