Virginia Woolf Quotes
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So that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again.
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madam," the man cried, leaping to the ground, "you're hurt!" "I'm dead, sir!" she replied. A few minutes later, they became engaged.
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What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
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I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual
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The only advice ... that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions.
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For we think back through our mothers if we are women.
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For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.
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It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
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Why does Samuel Butler say, 'Wise men never say what they think of women'? Wise men never say anything else apparently.
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for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge
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When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it.
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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.
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Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
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I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.
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How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
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There is something about the present which we would not exchange, though we were offered a choice of all past ages to live in.
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Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.
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To be nothing - is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?
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It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
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First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.
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Oh, I am in love with life!
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A feminist is any woman who tells the truth about her life
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How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?