quote by Virginia Woolf

It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.

— Virginia Woolf

Passioned Mrs Dalloway quotations

What does the brain matter compared with the heart?

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete, would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long voyage, this interminable --- this interminable life.

Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence

She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.

The compensation of growing old ... was simply this; that the passion remains as strong as ever, but one has gained -- at last! -- the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence -- the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.

Virginia Woolf's great novel, 'Mrs. Dalloway,' is the first great book I ever read. I read it almost by accident when I was in high school, when I was 15 years old.

For women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places.

Fear no more, says the heart.

Still, life had a way of adding day to day

It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.

He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise;

dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.

...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.

She thought there were no Gods; no one was to blame; and so she evolved this atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.

Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? All this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?

The world has raised its whip; where will it descend?

After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end;

and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.

Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall

Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.

Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day

What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself.

What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.

At Princeton I wrote my junior paper on Virginia Woolf, and for my senior thesis I wrote on Samuel Beckett. I wrote some about "Between the Acts" and "Mrs. Dalloway'' but mostly about "To the Lighthouse." With Beckett I focused, perversely, on his novels, "Molloy," "Malone Dies," and "The Unnamable." That's when I decided I should never write again.

The Hours is in fact a lovely triumph.

Cunningham honors both Mrs. Dalloway and its creator with unerring sensitivity, thanks to his modesty of intention and his sovereignly affecting prose.... With his elliptical evocation of Mrs. Dalloway, he has managed to pay great but quiet tribute -- reminding us of the gorgeous, ferocious beauty of what endures.

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