Virginia Woolf Quotes
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How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?
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As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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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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The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine; My thoughts follow the exact same process.
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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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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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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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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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But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.
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And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
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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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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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Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
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No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
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Novels so often provide an anodyne and not an antidote, glide one into torpid slumbers instead of rousing one with a burning brand.
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I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.
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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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As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
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more and more I come to loathe any dominion of one over another; any leadership, any imposition of the will.
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Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
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My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.
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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.