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)
From this I reach what might be called a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we - I mean all human beings - are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
Virginia Woolf, Moments Of Being. (via zacharymcinchak)
We walked on the river bank in a cold wind, under a grey sky. Both agreed that life seen without illusion is a ghastly affair.
Virginia Woolf, Diary Entry, 10 November 1917. (via violentwavesofemotion)
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)
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)