Woolf Short Stories, Virginia Woolf
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Virginia Woolf

Woolf Short Stories

Anna Zaboeva
Anna Zaboevaalıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. To steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea that passes.
Veronica Sizova
Veronica Sizovaalıntı yaptı3 yıl önce
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it. . .
Veronica Sizova
Veronica Sizovaalıntı yaptı3 yıl önce
I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts.
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı21 gün önce
For one doesn't live for oneself, thought Clarissa.
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı21 gün önce
But if Dick were to die tomorrow, as for believing in God-no, she would let the children choose, but for herself, like Lady Bexborough, who opened the bazaar, they say, with the telegram in her hand-Roden, her favourite, killed-she would go on. But why, if one doesn't believe? For the sake of others, she thought, taking the glove in her hand. The girl would be much more unhappy if she didn't believe.
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı21 gün önce
. If you had lived with pictures (and it's the same with books and music) thought Clarissa, passing the Aeolian Hall, you can't be taken in by a joke.
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı21 gün önce
The people she didn't want would come; the others wouldn't. She would stand by the door. They sold stockings-silk stockings. A lady is known by her gloves and her shoes, old Uncle William used to say. And through the hanging silk stockings quivering silver she looked at the lady, sloping shouldered, her hand drooping, her bag slipping, her eyes vacantly on the floor. It would be intolerable if dowdy women came to her party! Would one have liked Keats if he had worn red socks?
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı21 gün önce
To ride; to dance; she had adored all that. Or going long walks in the country, talking, about books, what to do with one's life, for young people were amazingly priggish-oh, the things one had said! But one had conviction. Middle age is the devil. People like Jack'll never know that, she thought; for he never once thought of death, never, they said, knew he was dying. And now can never mourn-
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı21 gün önce
Shakespeare's Sonnets. She knew them by heart. Phil and she had argued all day about the Dark Lady, and Dick had said straight out at dinner that night that he had never heard of her. Really, she had married him for that! He had never read Shakespeare! There must be some little cheap book she could buy for Milly-Cranford of course! Was there ever anything so enchanting as the cow in petticoats? If only people had that sort of humour, that sort of self-respect now, thought Clarissa, for she remembered the broad pages; the sentences ending; the characters-how one talked about them as if they were real. For all the great things one must go to the past, she thought.
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı24 gün önce
That impulse, too, may have been the impulse which leads a child to pick up one pebble on a path strewn with them, promising it a life of warmth and security upon the nursery mantelpiece, delighting in the sense of power and benignity which such an action confers, and believing that the heart of the stone leaps with joy when it sees itself chosen from a million like it, to enjoy this bliss instead of a life of cold and wet upon the high road. "It might so easily have been any other of the millions of stones, but it was I, I, I!"
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı24 gün önce
Looked at again and again half consciously by a mind thinking of something else, any object mixes itself so profoundly with the stuff of thought that it loses its actual form and recomposes itself a little differently in an ideal shape which haunts the brain when we least expect it.
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı5 ay önce
What now takes the place of those things I wonder, those real standard things? Men perhaps, should you be a woman; the masculine point of view which governs our lives, which sets the standard, which establishes Whitaker's Table of Precedency, which has become, I suppose, since the war half a phantom to many men and women, which soon-one may hope, will be laughed into the dustbin where the phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and the Landseer prints, Gods and Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating sense of illegitimate freedom-if freedom exists. . .
Ghafeela Sohail
Ghafeela Sohailalıntı yaptı5 ay önce
and habits-like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a certain hour, although nobody liked it
Tia Marsh
Tia Marshalıntı yaptı5 ay önce
So now I think of the fire; the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book;
Matthew Martinuzzi
Matthew Martinuzzialıntı yaptı6 ay önce
Indeed now you can't sit praying any longer. Kruger's sunk beneath the clouds-washed over as with a painter's brush of liquid grey, to which he adds a tinge of black-even the tip of the truncheon gone now. That's what always happens! Just as you've seen him, felt him, someone interrupts.
Matthew Martinuzzi
Matthew Martinuzzialıntı yaptı6 ay önce
she kneels; every day, winter, summer, dusk, dawn (here she's at it) prays. All her sins fall, fall, for ever fall. The spot receives them. It's raised, it's red, it's burning. Next she twitches.
Matthew Martinuzzi
Matthew Martinuzzialıntı yaptı6 ay önce
She runs, she rushes, home she reaches, but too late. Neighbours-the doctor-baby brother-the kettle-scalded-hospital– dead-or only the shock of it, the blame? Ah, but the detail matters nothing! It's what she carries with her
Matthew Martinuzzi
Matthew Martinuzzialıntı yaptı6 ay önce
She runs, she rushes, home she reaches, but too late.
Matthew Martinuzzi
Matthew Martinuzzialıntı yaptı6 ay önce
black, thick, thorned-a brutal old bully-Minnie's God! Did he send the itch and the patch and the twitch? Is that why she prays? What she rubs on the window is the stain of sin.
Matthew Martinuzzi
Matthew Martinuzzialıntı yaptı6 ay önce
But at last looking from the window and seeing, I knew, only life, she breathed,
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