#virginia woolf

[crystalclaire]

summer in the city

[manethabanana]

VIRGINIA WOOLF, The Voyage Out

[totallyhussein-blog]

Look and tell me what you see

“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.” ― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

[petit-atelier-de-poesie]

Il m’arrive parfois de penser que je ne suis pas une femme ; que je suis le rayon de soleil qui éclaire cette barrière, ce coin de sol. Il m’arrive parfois de penser que je suis les saisons, le mois de janvier, le mois de mai, le mois de novembre : que je fais partie de la boue, du brouillard et de l’aube.

Virginia Woolf. Les vagues. 1931. Traduction de Marguerite Yourcenar

[petaltexturedskies]

Shall I now continue this soliloquy, or shall I imagine an audience, which will make me describe…We had tea from bright blue cups under the pink light of the giant hollyhock. We were all a little drugged with the country; a little bucolic I thought. It was lovely enough—made me envious of the country peace; the trees all standing securely—why did my eye catch the trees? The look of things has a great power over me. Even now, I have to watch the rooks beating up against the wind, which is high, and still I say to myself instinctively “What’s the phrase for that?”

Virginia Woolf, in a diary entry dated 12 August 1928, from A Writer’s Diary

[thoughtkick]

No one has ever known you as I know you.

Virginia Woolf, Night And Day

[kallistoriae]

Literature does its best to maintain that its concern is with the mind; that the body is a sheet of plain glass through which the soul looks straight and clear, and, save for one or two passions such as desire and greed, is null, and negligible and non-existent. On the contrary, the very opposite is true. All day, all night the body intervenes; blunts or sharpens, colours or discolours, turns to wax in the warmth of June, hardens to tallow in the murk of February. The creature within can only gaze through the pane—smudged or rosy; it cannot separate off from the body like the sheath of a knife or the pod of a pea for a single instant; it must go through the whole unending procession of changes, heat and cold, comfort and discomfort, hunger and satisfaction, health and illness, until there comes the inevitable catastrophe; the body smashes itself to smithereens, and the soul (it is said) escapes. But of all this daily drama of the body there is no record.

— On being ill, Virginia Woolf

[lamine-19]

“are you okay?” oh my god no but for the purposes of this conversation yes i’m fine