Virginia Woolf On The Unknown

09AFDF5A-A064-46D2-9E49-C9D22825FA1EVirginia Woolf (January 25, 1882 – March 28, 1941)

Making the unknown—known—in terms of one’s medium is all-absorbing—if you stop to think of the form—as form you are lost—The artist’s form must be inevitable—You mustn’t even think you won’t succeed—Whether you succeed or not is irrelevant—there is no such thing. Making your unknown known is the important thing—and keeping the unknown always beyond you—catching crystallizing your simpler clearer version of life—only to see it turn stale compared to what you vaguely feel ahead—that you must always keep working to grasp—the form must take care of its self if you can keep your vision clear.

Virginia Woolf On Writing

09AFDF5A-A064-46D2-9E49-C9D22825FA1EVirginia Woolf (January 25, 1882 – March 28, 1941)

So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. But to sacrifice a hair of the head of your vision, a shade of its colour, in deference to some Headmaster with a silver pot in his hand or to some professor with a measuring-rod up his sleeve, is the most abject treachery.

Virginia Woolf On Life

09AFDF5A-A064-46D2-9E49-C9D22825FA1EVirginia Woolf  (January 25, 1882 – March 28, 1941)

How beautiful a street is in winter! It is at once revealed and obscured. Here vaguely one can trace symmetrical straight avenues of doors and windows; here under the lamps are floating islands of pale light through which pass quickly bright men and women, who, for all their poverty and shabbiness, wear a certain look of unreality, an air of triumph, as if they had given life the slip, so that life, deceived of her prey, blunders on without them. But, after all, we are only gliding smoothly on the surface. The eye is not a miner, not a diver, not a seeker after buried treasure. It floats us smoothly down a stream; resting, pausing, the brain sleeps perhaps as it looks.

Virginia Woolf On Reading

   Virginia Woolf   (January 25, 1882 – March 28, 1941) 
Virginia Woolf (January 25, 1882 – March 28, 1941) 

I have sometimes dreamt that when the Day of Judgment dawns — the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say when he sees us coming with our books under our arms, “Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.”