My heart currently resembles the ashes of my cigarettes.
Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West dated 10 November 1929 (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.
Virginia Woolf, A Room Of One’s Own. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
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)
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)
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)
She felt prisoned. Through the bars of the prison, through the sleep haze that deflected them, blunt arrows bruised her; of love, then of hate. She fell back lifeless.
Virginia Woolf,Between The Acts. (via violentwavesofemotion)
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)