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)
It’s life that matters, nothing but life — the process of discovering, the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all.
Virginia Woolf, Night And Day. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight.
Virginia Woolf, from “The String Quartet” (via seabois)
As usual she seemed to reserve something which she did not say, and he was conscious that they disagreed, and, without saying it aloud, were arguing against each other. But she was too hurried and pre-occupied to talk.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
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)
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)
One’s mind begins tossing up a question or two, idly, vainly, about this same life. Life, it sings, or croons rather, like a kettle on a hob. Life, life, what art thou? Light or darkness, the baize apron of the under-footman or the shadow of the starling on the grass?
Virginia Woolf,Orlando. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)