Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.
Virginia Woolf, A Room Of One’s Own. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
She looked before she drank. Looking was part of drinking. Why waste sensation, she seemed to ask, why waste a single drop that can be pressed out of this ripe, this melting, this adorable world? Then she drank. And the air round her became threaded with sensation.
Virginia Woolf, Between The Acts. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
Adrian, Thoby, Vanessa and Virginia,1892.
Her shoulder-blades meet across her back like the wings of a small butterfly. And as she stares at the chalk figures, her mind lodges in those white circles, it steps through those white loops into emptiness, alone. They have no meaning for her. She has no answer for them. She has no body as the others have.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
How could she help being “like that” to look at? No one could accuse her of taking pains to impress. And she would, if she had the chance, have liked to take people by the scruff of their necks and make them see.
Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
There are lots of other questions,” she continued, “though perhaps we can’t ask them yet.” Although they had talked so freely they were all uncomfortably conscious that they really knew nothing about each other. “The important questions,” he pondered, “the really interesting ones. I doubt that one ever does ask them.” She, who was slow to accept the fact that only a very few things can be said even by people who know each other well, insisted on knowing what he meant.
“Whether we’ve ever been in love?” she enquired. “Is that the kind of question you mean?”.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
He will forget me. He will leave my letters lying about among guns and dogs unanswered. I shall send him poems and he will perhaps reply with a picture post card. But it is for that that I love him. I shall propose meeting - under a clock, by some Cross; and shall wait, and he will not come. It is for that that I love him. Oblivious, almost entirely ignorant, he will pass from my life. And I shall pass, incredible as it seems, into other lives; this is only an escapade perhaps, a prelude only.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves. (via thisideaofsurrender)
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)
Love, the poet has said, is woman’s whole existence. A violent tumult of emotion besieged her at realising it.
Virginia Woolf,Orlando. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)