Virginia Woolf Quotes - Page 7

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The chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much-talked-of-man.

For the young people could not talk. And why should they? Shout, embrace, swing, be up at dawn.

Like" and "like" and "like"--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?

No passion is stronger in the breast of man than the desire to make others believe as he believes

In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.

My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.

I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me.

I was so pleased and excited by your letter that I trotted about all day like a puppy with a bone.

The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine; My thoughts follow the exact same process.

Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words.

As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.

With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Happily, at forty-six I still feel as experimental and on the verge of getting at the truth as ever.

I grow numb; I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?

Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue.

I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.

What a labour writing is ... making one sentence do the work of a page; that's what I call hard work.

Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?

For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.

But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.

Travelers are much at the mercy of phrases ... vast generalizations formulate in their exposed brains.

Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.

Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.

I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.

As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.

Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action.

When people are happy they have a reserve upon which to draw, whereas she was like a wheel without a tyre

Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.

I was in a queer mood, thinking myself very old: but now I am a woman again - as I always am when I write.

There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.

Orlando naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.

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

You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.

Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.

For the film maker must come by his convention, as painters and writers and musicians have done before him.

Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.

Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.

more and more I come to loathe any dominion of one over another; any leadership, any imposition of the will.

The connection between dress and war is not far to seek; your finest clothes are those you wear as soldiers.

Now, aged 50, I'm just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are.

Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Why, he wondered, did people who had been asleep always want to make out that they were extremely wide-awake?

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