Virginia Woolf
Im terrified of
passive aquiescene. I live in intensity.
“In case you
ever foolishly forget: I am never not thinking of you.”
My brain hums with
scraps of poetry and madness
In solitude we give
passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
Once conform, once
do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the
finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward
emptiness, dull, callous, and indifferent.
“Lock up your
libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set
upon the freedom of my mind.”
No need to
hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.”
“I am rooted, but I flow.”
“Second hand
books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of
variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the
library lack.”
“How much
better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself
like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here
for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in
themselves, myself being myself.”
“Love, the poet
said, is woman's whole existence.”
“All extremes
of feeling are allied with madness.”
“What does the
brain matter compared with the heart?”
“I have a
deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.”
“When, however,
one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise
woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I
think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute
and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the
moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her
gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so
many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”
― A Room of One's Own
“Blame it or
praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.”
“I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.”
“How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?
“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.”
I feel a
thousand capacities spring up in me. I am arch, gay, languid, melancholy by
turns. I am rooted, but I flow.”
“...who shall
measure the heat and violence of a poet's heart when caught and tangled in a
woman's body?”
Language is
wine upon the lips
The artist
after all is a solitary being
I am
overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the
proper words
Distorted
realities have always been my cup of tea
“Let us simmer over our incalculable cauldron, our enthralling
confusion, our hotchpotch of impulses, our perpetual miracle - for the soul
throws up wonders every second. Movement and change are the essence of our
being; rigidity is death; conformity is death; let us say what comes into our
heads, repeat ourselves, contradict ourselves, fling out the wildest nonsense,
and follow the most fantastic fancies without caring what the world does or
thinks or says. For nothing matters except life.”
Until we can comprehend the
beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the
meaning and potential of life itself.”
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