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Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf Quotes

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Famous Virginia Woolf Quotes

“A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run through the body with his pen.”

KnowsWellsMeanBodyRunningUnderstandingWomenOpinionDrinkJudgmentDignityCriticismPraiseRefuseWitAdmireTeaPensDeniedRespect Her
Book:Delphi Complete Works of Virginia Woolf (Illustrated)
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“The light struck upon the trees in the garden, making one leaf transparent and then another. One bird chirped high up; there was a pause; another chirped lower down. The sun sharpended the walls of the house, and rested like the tip of a fan upon a white blind and made a fingerprint of a shadow under the leaf by the bedroom window. The blind stirred slightly, but all within was dim and unsubstantial. The birds sang their blank melody outside.”

MadeLightHouseWhiteSunTreeFansWallBirdShadowGardenWindowBlindMelodyBlankBedroomPausesLeafsTransparentFingerprints
Author:Virginia Woolf
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“So he was deserted. The whole world was clamouring: Kill yourself, kill yourself, for our sakes. But why should he kill himself for their sakes? Food was pleasant; the sun hot; and this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood, - by sucking a gaspipe? He was too weak; he could scarcely raise his hand. Besides, now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know.”

KnowsWorldShouldDoeWholeHandsDiesSunBloodWeakHotRaisesTablesKillingSakeOneselfWhole WorldLuxuryPleasantIsolationKnivesFloodDesertedKilling YourselfSublimity
Book:Mrs. Dalloway - Broadview Edition
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“Wind and storm colored July. Also, in the middle, cadaverous, awful, lay the grey puddle in the courtyard, when holding an envelope in my hand, I carried a message. I came to the puddle. I could not cross it. Identity failed me. We are nothing, I said, and fell. I was blown like a feather. I was wafted down tunnels. Then very gingerly, I pushed my foot across. I laid my hand against a brick wall. I returned very painfully, drawing myself back into my body over the grey, cadaverous space of the puddle. This is life then to which I am committed.”

SaidBodyHandsSpaceFeetMiddleIdentityWindWallMessagesCrossesLaysCommittedStormDrawingAwfulGreyFeathersBricksJulyTunnelsEnvelopesPuddlesBrick Wall
Author:Virginia Woolf
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“Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange.”

MeanLittlesBodyForceWonderStruggleSawsMinutesStrangeGrewPureCreaturesFilledTriumphUselessRelaxedPencilsInsignificantTokensMothsBeadsAntagonist
Book:Essays Virginia Woolf
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