© accioloki
    I don’t admit to being hopeless, though: only the spectacle is a profoundly strange one; and as the current answers don’t do, one has to grope for a new one, and the process of discarding the old, when one is by no means certain what to put in their place, is a sad one.
Virginia Woolf (via arpeggia)
posted 1 year ago | via | © | 96 #virginia woolf #so good


mrs. dalloway by Chris Drumm on Flickr

    With her mind she had always seized the fact that there is no reason, order, justice: but suffering, death, the poor. There was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that.
— Virginia Woolf, The the Lighthouse (via lifeinpoetry)
posted 1 year ago | via | © | 156 #Virginia Woolf
    What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
— Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway (via comparisonswithsummerdays)
posted 1 year ago | via | © | 201 #virginia woolf
    I’m good, she thought at fact-collecting. But what makes up a person -, (she hollowed her hand), the circumference, - no, I’m not good at that.
— Virginia Woolf, The Years (via vwvw)
posted 1 year ago | via | © | 60 #lit #virginia woolf
    Why should I be bothering myself with questions which shall eternally remain unanswered? How queer that wave of agony; melancholy paralyzing my senses, beautifully, yet for nothing.
— Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 5 July 1919. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
    I don’t know when I have suffered more; and yet why did I suffer? And what did I suffer? I said, “I love life”; disillusion filled me: all belief fell off me. Hopelessness broke my bones.
— Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)
    Still I gape, like a young bird, unsatisfied, for something that has escaped me. I cannot keep myself together. I am like a log slipping smoothly over some waterfall.
— Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via violentwavesofemotion)
posted 2 years ago | via | © | 185 #lit #virginia woolf #the waves
    This gloom, this surrender to the dark waters which lap us about, is a modern invention.
— Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
posted 2 years ago | via | | 308 #lit #virginia woolf #jacob's room