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Quote by Virginia Woolf

“Children, our lives have been gongs striking; clamour and boasting; cries of despair; blows on the nape of the neck in gardens.”

Quote by Virginia Woolf

Work

The Waves

This book is a profound exploration of human consciousness and the nature of reality, narrated through the eyes of six friends who grow up together and experience the complexities of life. more

Author

Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf

British modernist writer, known for her unique narrative techniques and profound portrayal of female experience. Her works include 'To the Lighthouse' and 'Mrs. Dalloway'. more

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“People who grew up in major cities may wonder why the hell I would act like it's a big deal to be unaccompanied in New York City at that age. It's populated with both adults and children, it's a functioning metropolis, Kevin McCallister was only ten in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, and that kid saved Christmas. Conversely, people from suburban areas act like my parents sent me wandering around the site of the Baby Jessica well, blindfolded and holding a flaming baton. So pick a side and prepare to judge me either way!”

“People who grew up in major cities may wonder why the hell I would act like it's a big deal to be unaccompanied in New York City at that age. It's populated with both adults and children, it's a functioning metropolis, Kevin McCallister was only ten in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, and that kid saved Christmas. Conversely, people from suburban areas act like my parents sent me wandering around the site of the Baby Jessica well, blindfolded and holding a flaming baton. So pick a side and prepare to judge me wither way!”

“Soldats de plomb… Soldats de plomb, ô, toute mon enfance, quand Hetmans aux cheveux blonds, nous déployions une cohue De héros immortels, oubliés dans quelque bahut, De preux sans crainte en immobiles rangs. Et, nous les enfants, avec nos sabres en bois, partions nous quereller En portant comme étendard des serviettes au soleil flottant. Quel corps à corps, quelle raclée sous les mûriers du verger ! Et après la bataille, combien de morts fuyaient en riant… Ô ! où donc es-tu, guerre, époque innocente ! Maintenant la lutte hurle et la blessure déchirée se lamente, Et les morts meurent vraiment de leur amour de la patrie. Quel dieu-enfant se penche sur les hommes-jouets, Et le soir, les renversant dans les noirs coffrets, Dans les tranchées les poupées de cire ensevelit ?”