What a comfort is friendship in this world.

I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.

For pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space ; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects ; and sounds very remote and then very close ; flesh being gashed and blood sparting, a joint suddenly twisted - beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude.” — Virginia Woolf, The Waves

To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.

Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.

It would be a thousand pities if women wrote like men, or lived like men, or looked like men, for if two sexes are quite inadequate, considering the vastness and variety of the world, how should we manage with one only? Ought not education to bring out and fortify the differences rather than the similarities?

And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.