10 Mayo
It was as if another space of time had been issued to her, but, robbed by the presence of death of something personal, she felt — she hesitated for a word; “immune?” Was that what she meant? Immune, she said, looking at a picture without seeing it. Immune, she repeated.
Virginia Woolf, The Years. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
09 Mayo
I am empty headed tonight and feeling all the prelude of spring - the vague discomfort and melancholy and a feeling of having come to anchor.
Virginia Woolf, Diary Entry, 28 February, 1927. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
23 Abr
But she said, sitting on the bus going up Shaftesbury Avenue, she felt herself everywhere; not ‘here, here, here’; and she tapped the back of the seat; but everywhere. She waved her hand, going up Shaftesbury Avenue. She was all that. So that to know her, or any one, one must seek out the people who completed them; even the places. Odd affinities she had with people she had never spoke to, some women in the street, some man behind a counter - even trees, or barns. It ended in a transcendental theory which, with her horror of death, allowed her to believe, or say that she believed (for all her scepticism), that since our apparitions, the part of us which appears, are so momentary compared with the other, the unseen part of us, which spreads wide, the unseen might survive, be recovered somehow attached to this person or that, or even haunting certain places, after death. Perhaps - perhaps.
29 Nov
What better occupation, really, than to spend the evening at the fireside with a book, with the wind beating on the windows and the lamp burning bright. Haven’t you ever happened to come across in a book some vague notion that you’ve had, some obscure idea that returns from afar and that seems to express completely your most subtle feelings?
Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary (via whiskey river)
(Fuente: proustitute)
16 Nov
Not as oneself did one find rest ever, in her experience, but as a wedge of darkness. Losing personality, one lost the fret, the hurry, the stir; and there rose to her lips always some exclamation of triumph over life when things came together in this peace, this rest, this eternity.
Virginia Woolf,To The Lighthouse. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
11 Nov
She sat perfectly still, listening and looking always at the same spot. It became stranger and stranger. She was overcome with awe that things should exist at all ; she forgot that she had any fingers to raise. The things that existed were so immense and so desolate. She continued to be conscious of these vast masses of substance for a long stretch of time, the clock still ticking in the midst of the universal silence.
Virginia Woolf,The Voyage Out. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
29 Oct
With intermittent shocks, sudden as the springs of a tiger, life emerges heaving its dark crest from the sea. It is to this we are attached; it is to this we are bound, as bodies to wild horses.
Virginia Woolf,The Waves. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
28 Oct
I attach myself only to names and faces; and hoard them like amulets against disaster. I choke. I am rocked from side to side by the violence of my emotion. I imagine these nameless, these immaculate people, watching me from behind bushes. I leap high to excite their admiration.
Virginia Woolf,The Waves. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
25 Sep
Is there not an open window on the right hand of the bookcase? How delightful to stop reading and look out! How stimulating the scene is, in its unconsciousness, its irrelevance, its perpetual movement.
Virginia Woolf,How Should One Read A Book? (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
25 Sep
She was glad, Lily thought, to rest in silence, uncommunicative; to rest in the extreme obscurity of human relationships.
Virginia Woolf,To The Lighthouse. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
