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)
What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
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)
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.
I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.
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…
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)