Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry c. February 1920
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Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in "a passionate apprentice"
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Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in “A Writer’s Diary”
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— A Writer's Diary, Virginia Woolf (August 31, 1928)
[text ID: This is the last day of August and like almost all of them of extraordinary beauty. Each day is fine enough and hot enough for sitting out; but also full of wandering clouds;]
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more like this Virginia. April in general :)
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how do I get over the fear of actually using those pretty notebooks I keep buying
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Tuesday, March 28th, 1933
"It is the finest spring ever known -- soft, hot, blue, misty."
~ Virginia Woolf, A Writer's Diary
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Virginia Woolf
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1939
Thursday, November 30th.
I am brain fagged and must resist the desire to tear up and cross out- must fill my mind with air and light; and walk and blanket it in fog. Rubber boots help. I can flounder over the marsh. No, I will write a little memoir.
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". . . she often felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped full of human emotions."
- Virginia Woolf
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Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry written c. July 1935 featured in Selected Diaries
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Virginia Woolf from a diary entry wr. c. February 1920 in The Complete Works of Virginia Woolf
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— A Writer's Diary, Virginia Woolf (August 31, 1928)
[text ID: This is the last day of August and like almost all of them of extraordinary beauty. Each day is fine enough and hot enough for sitting out; but also full of wandering clouds; and that fading and rising of the light which so enraptures me in the downs; which I am always comparing to the light beneath an alabaster bowl. The corn is now stood about in rows of three, four or five solid shaped yellow cakes—rich, it seems, with eggs and spice; good to eat. Sometimes I see the cattle galloping "like mad" as Dostoievsky would say, in the brooks. The clouds—if I could describe them I would; one yesterday had flowing hair on it, like the very fine white hair of an old man. At this moment they are white in a leaden sky; but the sun behind the house is making the grass green. I walked to the racecourse today and saw a weasel.]
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Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary
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I feel that I have had a blow; but it is not, as I thought as a child, simply a blow from an enemy hidden behind the cotton wool of daily life; it is or will become a revelation of some order; it is a token of some real thing behind appearances; and I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together.
Virginia Woolf, from Moments of Being, Autobiographical Writings
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