About Virginia Woolf: Adeline Virginia Woolf was an English writer and one of the foremost modernists of the twentieth century.
It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
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?
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
Anyhow, whether undergraduate or shop boy, man or woman, it must come as a shock about the age of twenty—the world of the elderly—thrown up in such black outline upon what we are; upon the reality; the moors and Byron; the sea and the lighthouse;...
I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.
When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?
I like books whose virtue is all drawn together in a page or two. I like sentences that don't budge though armies cross them.
anyone who’s worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
What's the use trying to read Shakespeare, especially in one of those little paper editions whose pages get ruffled, or stuck together with sea-water?
Kind old ladies assure us that cats are often the best judges of character. A cat will always go to a good man, they say[.]
They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought[.]
Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.
It seems that a profound, impartial, and absolutely just opinion of our fellow-creatures is utterly unknown. Either we are men, or we are women. Either we are cold, or we are sentimental. Either we are young, or growing old. In any case life is but a...
No doubt we should be, on the whole, much worse off than we are without our astonishing gift for illusion.
But language is wine upon his lips
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. The streets of London have their map; but our passions are uncharted. What are you go...
