Virginia Woolf

  • Mar. 6th, 2016 at 7:09 PM
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Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title.

Virginia Woolf

  • Nov. 20th, 2011 at 8:59 PM
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Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is  scarcely perceptible; Shakespeare's plays, for instance, seem to hang there complete by themselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in midair by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to the grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in.

(A Room of One's Own)

Virginia Woolf

  • Nov. 17th, 2010 at 1:55 AM
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...It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.

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