virginia's vivid nightmares
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It's far harder to kill a panthom than a reality.

We cannot understand the present if we isolate it from the past. If we want to understand what it is that you are doing now, I must ask you to forget that we are in this room, this night. We must forget that we are, for the moment, ourselves. We must become the people that we were two or three generations ago. Let us be our grandmothers.
Virginia Woolf | Permalink
Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via shapedlikemyself) | Permalink

the-dream-of-perpetual-romance:

So, get this.

Many scholars believe that the best written description of the orgasm exists in Mrs. Dalloway, the novel by Virginia Woolf. Here it is:

“Only for a moment; but it was enough. It was a sudden revelation, a tinge like a blush when one tried to check and then, as it spread, one yielded to its expansion, and rushed to the farthest verge and there quivered and felt the world come closer, swollen with some astonishing significance, some pressure of rapture, which split its thin skin and gushed and poured with an extraordinary alleviation over the cracks and sores! Then, for that moment, she had seen an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed. But the close withdrew; the hard softened. It was over — the moment.”

If this is wrong then I don’t wanna be right. 

3 weeks ago | Permalink

I had a last glimpse of you just before it all disappeared and I waved; I hope you saw.

Thank you for letting me see Asheham. It is very wonderful and I feel that it will flash upon one corner of my inward eye for ever.

It was good to have time to talk to you; we have got the same job, Virginia, and it is really very curious and thrilling that we should both, quite apart from each other, be after so very nearly the same thing. We are, you know; there’s no denying it.

Katherine Mansfield, from a letter to Virginia Woolf, August 1917 (via katherine-mansfield) | Permalink
From this I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we – I mean all human beings – are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being | Permalink
Her life – that was the only chance she had – the short season between two silences.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out | Permalink
azurea:

Virginia Woolf - eine Stunde/ one hour (by Ines Seidel)

azurea:

Virginia Woolf - eine Stunde/ one hour (by Ines Seidel)

Then I had tea, & rambled down to Charing Cross in the dark, making up phrases & incidents to write about. Which is, I expect, the way one gets killed.
The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume One 1915-1919 | Permalink

But I was glad to come home, & feel my real life coming back again - I mean life here with L. Solitary is not quite the right word; one’s personality seems to echo out across space, when he’s not there to enclose all one’s vibrations. (…)


I heard L. at the door & there he was! With the softness of a mouse he had let himself in & breakfasted. We talked for as long as we could; things kept oozing out; sudden silences & spurts; divine contentment at being once more harmonious. L. travelled all night.

The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume One 1915-1919 | Permalink
I mean, life has to be sloughed: has to be faced: to be rejected; then accepted on new terms with rapture. And so on, and so on; till you are 40, when the only problem is how to grasp it tighter and tighter to you, so quick it seems to slip, and so infinitely desirable is it.
Virginia Woolf to Gerald Brenan, 25 December 1922 (via leopoldgursky) | Permalink

Written for young nephews Quentin and Julian Bell, family newspaper contains gentle lampoons of family and servants

An affectionate, mischievous side to Virginia Woolf is set to be revealed in the author’s last unpublished work, a series of 90-year-old family vignettes that will be released for the first time this summer.

3 months ago | Permalink
I dreamt that I was looking in a glass when a horrible face - the face of an animal - suddenly showed over my shoulder. I cannot be sure if this was a dream, or if it happened.
Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being | Permalink
I think the main point is that it should be free.
From Virginia Woolf’s plans for Jacob’s Room, 15 April 1920 (via leopoldgursky) | Permalink

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