My heart currently resembles the ashes of my cigarettes.
Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West dated 10 November 1929 (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
Could loving, as people called it, make her and Mrs. Ramsay one? For it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to man, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge, she had thought, leaning her head on Mrs. Ramsay’s knee.
Virginia Woolf, To the LIghthouse (via erosum)
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)