I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement. ― Virginia Woolf, The Waves. (Harvest Books 1978) Originally published October 8th 1931. Advertisements
What if I told you I’m incapable of tolerating my own heart? — Virginia Woolf, Night and Day. (Penguin Classics; Reprint edition, January 1, 1996) Originally published October 1919.
I live; I die; the sea comes over me; it’s the blue that lasts. — Virginia Woolf, Melymbrosia. (Cleis Press, September 27, 2004) Virginia Woolf completed Melymbrosia in 1912 . Originally published posthumously 1981. Advertisements
That dream, of sharing, completing, of finding in solitude on the beach an answer, was then but a reflection in a mirror, and the mirror itself was but the surface glassiness which forms in quiescence when the nobler powers sleep beneath? Impatient, despairing yet loth to go (for beauty offers her lures, has her consolations),… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
My heart is spilled open; words refuse to bounce and settle. No writing. Everything disappears but the feel of utter equilibrium between fractured echoes. I dig for a name under the shadow of this feeling; the intention is sparkling but I am incapable of disturbing the silence. I am at peace and I wonder not… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows. ― Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room. (W. W. Norton & Company, May 14, 2007) Originally published 1922. Advertisements
This is our world, lit with crescents and stars of light; and great petals half transparent block the openings like purple windows. Everything is strange. Things are huge and very small. The stalks of flowers are thick as oak trees. Leaves are high as the domes of vast cathedrals. We are giants, lying here, who… Continue reading Virginia Woolf