Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again... by Virginia Woolf

Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

Virginia Woolf

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Categorized in : Said Violet Woven

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.

adequate strange years

I worship you, but I loathe marriage. I hate its smugness, its safety, its compromise and the thought of you interfering with my work, hindering me; what would you answer?

worship-you safety hate

But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing. by Virginia Woolf

But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.

undoing solitude

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.

rocks black-and-white eye

Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence by Virginia Woolf

Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence

party silence giving

Young women... you are, in my opinion, disgracefully ignorant. You have never made a discovery of any sort of importance. You have never shaken an empire or led an army into battle. The plays by Shakespeare are not by you, and you have never introduced a barbarous race to the blessings of civilization. What is your excuse?

women army blessing

Writing is a divine art, and the more I write and read the more I... by Virginia Woolf

Writing is a divine art, and the more I write and read the more I love it.

divine writing art

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

legs mind moving

for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge

tablets unity men

And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, l... by Virginia Woolf

And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.

antagonist felt literature

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

flower practice rose

To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than... by Virginia Woolf

To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.

slavery work father

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night. by Virginia Woolf

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

good-night sound winter

A learned man is a sedentary, concentrated solitary enthusiast, who searches through books to discover some particular grain of truth upon which he has set his heart. If the passion for reading conquers him, his gains dwindle and vanish between his fingers. A reader, on the other hand, must check the desire for learning at the outset; if knowledge sticks to him well and good, but to go in pursuit of it, to read on a system, to become a specialist or an authority, is very apt to kill what suits us to consider the more humane passion for pure and disinterested reading.

passion reading book

I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot. by Virginia Woolf

I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.

rhythm plot writing

The weight of the world is on our shoulders, its vision is through our eyes; if we blink or look aside, or turn back to finger what Plato said or remember Napoleon and his conquests, we inflict on the world the injury of some obliquity. This is life.

vision eye plato

The roar of the traffic, the passage of undifferentiated faces, this way and that way, drugs me into dreams; rubs the features from faces. People might walk through me. And what is this moment of time, this particular day in which I have found myself caught? The growl of traffic might be any uproar - forest trees or the roar of wild beasts. Time has whizzed back an inch or two on its reel; our short progress has been cancelled. I think also that our bodies are in truth naked. We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.

dream two thinking

The way to rock oneself back into writing is this. First gentle exercise in the air. Second the reading of good literature. It is a mistake to think that literature can be produced from the raw. One must get out of life...one must become externalised; very, very concentrated, all at one point, not having to draw upon the scattered parts of one's character, living in the brain.

reading mistake writing

The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of word... by Virginia Woolf

The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.

dripping genius sea

Almost any biographer, if he respects facts, can give us much more than another fact to add to our collection. He can give us the creative fact; the fertile fact; the fact that suggests and engenders.

creative add giving