Virginia Woolf Quotes
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Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
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The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.
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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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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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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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Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation.
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But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.
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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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One must love everything.
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Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)
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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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A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one
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No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
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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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How remorseless life is!
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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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In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
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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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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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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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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?