Virginia Woolf Quotes
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.
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The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.
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There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.
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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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A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
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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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A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one
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One must love everything.
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How remorseless life is!
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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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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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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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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There are moments when one can neither think nor feel, she thought, and if one can neithre feel nor think, where's one?
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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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With my cheek leant upon the window pane I like to fancy that I am pressing as closely as can be upon the massy wall of time, which is forever lifting and pulling and letting fresh spaces of life in upon us. May it be mine to taste the moment before it has spread itself over the rest of the world! Let me taste the newest and the freshest.
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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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Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.
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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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There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.
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Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)
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No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.