1,646 Quotes by Virginia Woolf
- Author Virginia Woolf
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For what more terrifying revelation can there be than that it is the present moment? That we survive the shock at all is only possible because the past shelters us on one side and the future on another. But we have no time now for reflections; Orlando was terribly late already.
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- Author Virginia Woolf
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And indeed, it cannot be denied that the most successful practitioners of the art of life, often unknown people by the way, somehow contrive to synchronize the sixty or seventy different times which beat simultaneously in every normal human system so that when eleven strikes, all the rest chime in unison, and the present is neither a violent disruption nor completely forgotten in the past.
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- Author Virginia Woolf
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Let a man get up and say, Behold, this is the truth, and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background. Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.
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- Author Virginia Woolf
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Tinha a perpétua sensação, enquanto olhava os carros, de estar fora, longe e sozinha no meio do mar; sempre sentira que era muito, muito perigoso viver, por um só dia que fosse.
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- Author Virginia Woolf
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All mists curl off the roof of my being. That confidence I shall keep to my dying day. Like a long wave, like a roll of heavy waters, he washes over me, his devastating presence - dragging me open, laying bare the pebbles on the shore of my soul. It was humiliating. I was turned to small stones.
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- Author Virginia Woolf
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Are they not criminals, books that have wasted our time and sympathy; are they not the most insidious enemies of society, corrupters, defilers, the writers of false books, faked books, books that fill the air with decay and disease?
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- Author Virginia Woolf
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For if it is rash to walk into a lion's den unarmed, rash to navigate the Atlantic in a rowing boat, rash to stand on one foot on the top of St Paul's, it is still more rash to go home alone with a poet
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- Author Virginia Woolf
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She stood there: she listened. She heard the names of the stars.
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- Author Virginia Woolf
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She sighed, she snored, not that she was asleep, only drowsy and heavy, drowsy and heavy, like a field of clover in the sunshine this hot July day, with the bees going round and about and the yellow butterflies.
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