Virginia Woolf idézet

oldal 6

„Van egy mélyen rejtett és artikulálatlan vágyam valami iránt, ami túlmutat a mindennapi életen.”

„Az élet nehéz; a tények megalkuvást nem tűrőek; és az átkelés abba a mesebeli országba, ahol a legfényesebb reményeink kialszanak, törékeny bárkáink sötétségbe vesznek, olyan, amelyhez mindenekelőtt bátorságra, igazságra és a kitartás erejére van szükség.”

„Van az a különös képességünk, hogy a képzelet erejével megváltoztathatjuk a tényeket.”

„Ha nem vagyok önmagam, senki sem vagyok.”

„A halálról akartam írni, de az élet közbeszólt, mint mindig.”

„Nem kell sietni. Nem kell ragyogni. Nem kell másnak lenni, csak önmagunknak.”

„És költő szeretnél lenni; és szerető szeretnél lenni.”

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

“To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.”

“Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.”

“But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.”

“Women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems.”

“I prefer men to cauliflowers”

“For masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.”

“Fear no more, says the heart…”

“Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.”

“No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.”

“Life is not a series of gig-lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.”

“Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.”

“First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.”

“One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate suffering, or increase the breed of these lustful animals, who have no lasting emotions, but only whims and vanities, eddying them now this way, now that.”

“Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.”

“for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge”

“Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.”

“Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.”

“To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable.”

“For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.”

“We are cut, we are fallen. We are become part of that unfeeling universe
that sleeps when we are at our quickest and burns red when we lie
asleep.”

“Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.”

“It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.”

“A sort of transaction went on between them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another, and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her.”

“I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.”

“One wanted, she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy.”

“The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.”

“Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?”

“Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.”