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Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
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Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat's; or she purred.
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Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
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Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
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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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There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.
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Be truthful, and the result is bound to be amazingly interesting.
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Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
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The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman. It is only when we know what were the conditions of the average woman's life - the number of children, whether she had money of her own, if she had a room to herself, whether she had help bringing up her family, if she had servants, whether part of the housework was her task - it is only when we can measure the way of life and experience made possible to the ordinary woman that we can account for the success or failure of the extraordinary woman as a writer.
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The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine; My thoughts follow the exact same process.
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The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.
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For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
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Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
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I have made up thousands of stories; I have filled innumerable notebooks with phrases to be used when I have found the true story, the one story to which all these phrases refer. But I have never yet found the story. And I begin to ask, Are there stories?
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But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.
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Only longing can fill with more of itself.
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The mind which is most capable of receiving impressions is very often the least capable of drawing conclusions.
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But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.
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Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)
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Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world.
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Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.
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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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To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable.
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Neither of us knows what the public will think. There's no doubt in my mind that I have found out how to begin (at forty) to say something in my own voice; and that interests me so that I feel I can go ahead without praise.