Virginia Woolf Fuck Yeah

In the spring her desire for expression invariably increased. She was haunted by the ghosts of phrases. She gave herself up to a sensual delight in the combinations of words. She sought them in the pages of her favorite authors. She made them for herself on scraps of paper, and rolled them on her tongue when there seemed no occasion for such eloquence…

She stood there: she listened. She heard the names of the stars.

It is the finest spring ever known—soft, hot, blue, misty.

…the most ordinary conversation is often the most poetic, and the most poetic is precisely that which cannot be written down.

She was born to be adored of poets.

With stars in her eyes and veils in her hair, with cyclamen and wild violets —

I will cut adrift—I will sit on pavements and drink coffee—I will dream; I will take my mind out of its iron cage and let it swim—this fine October.

I wonder if you talked about me, as you went home, or thought of me when the moon rose,

I want to raise up the magic world all round me and live strongly and quietly there.

This morning I am wonderfully peaceful. Just like a storm that has spent itself.