© 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

wherethemoonwalks:

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 | © | 154 #Virginia Woolf
    What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
— Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway (via comparisonswithsummerdays)
posted 1 year ago | via | © | 199 #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 1 year ago | via | © | 177 #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 1 year ago | via | | 310 #lit #virginia woolf #jacob's room

Virginia Woolf, Night & Day.

posted 1 year ago | via | © | 183 #Virginia Woolf #sweet jesus
    Sitting alone among the clean cups at the long table, she felt cut off from other people, and able only to go on watching, asking, wondering; what does it mean then? What can it all mean?
— Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
    I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.
— Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via violentwavesofemotion)
posted 1 year ago | via | © | 468 #virginia woolf #the waves
    Nevertheless, life is pleasant, life is tolerable. Tuesday follows Monday; then comes Wednesday. The mind grows rings; the identity becomes robust; pain is absorbed in growth. Opening and shutting, shutting and opening, with increasing hum and sturdiness, the haste and fever of youth are drawn into service until the whole being seems to expand in and out like the mainspring of a clock. How fast the stream flows from January to December! We are swept on by the torrent of things grown so familiar that they cast no shadow. We float, we float…
— Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via violentwavesofemotion)
    On the whole, what I like is to flash and dash from side to side, goaded on by what I call reality. If I never felt these extraordinarily pervasive strains - of unrest, or rest, or happiness, or discomfort - I should float down into acquiescence. Here is something to fight: And when I wake early I say to myself Fight, fight. If I could catch the feeling, I would: the feeling of the singing of the real world; the sense that comes to me of being bound on a perpetual adventure; of being strangely free to do anything.
— Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 2 October 1929. (via violentwavesofemotion)