Quotes from Virginia Woolf

Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you.

They went in and out of each other's minds without any effort.

I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one's own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.

Therefore I would ask you to write all kinds of books, hesitating at no subject however trivial or however vast. By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream.

Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.

who shall measure the heat and violence of a poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?

But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.

She had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!

By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind.