Virginia Woolf Quotes
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It is no use trying to sum people up.
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The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.
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He was a thorough good sort; a bit limited; a bit thick in the head; yes; but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way; without a touch of imagination, without a sparkle of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type.
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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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Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation.
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After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.
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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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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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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.
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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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No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.
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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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In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
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There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.
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How remorseless life is!
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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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I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married
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I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.
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... the public and the private worlds are inseparably connected ... the tyrannies and servilities of the one are the tyrannies and servilities of the other.