Who shall blame him? Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off, and halts by the window and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distant at first, gradually come closer and closer, till lips and book and head are clearly before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar from the intensity of his isolation and the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars, and finally putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent head before herโwho will blame him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?
Virginia WoolfWhy does one write these books after all? The drudgery, the misery, the grind, are forgotten everytime; and one launches another, and it seems sheer joy and buoyancy.
Virginia WoolfEach had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title.
Virginia Woolf... if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.
Virginia WoolfShe had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life โ one scratched on the wall.
Virginia Woolf