There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, “Consume me”.

I to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely...

Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am

But to myself I am immeasurable; a net whose fibres pass imperceptibly beneath the world.

“Her shoulder-blades meet across her back like the wings of a small butterfly.”

I'm a bit late but happy new year everyone :)

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. We have renounced our station and lie now flat, withered and how soon forgotten

this is our universe, this is our world, this is here, this is now

You are not listening to me. You are making phrases about Byron. (...) I am trying to expose a secret told to nobody yet; I am asking you (as I stand with my back to you) to take my life in your hands and tell me whether I am doomed always to cause repulsion in those I love?

virginia woolf, the waves.

On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points

I was Byron, and the tree was Byron’s tree, lachrymose, down-showering, lamenting.

Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things. A table, a chair, a book with a paper-knife stuck between the pages. And the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit silent

All palpable forms of life have failed me. Unless I can stretch and touch something hard, I shall be blown down the eternal corridors for ever. What, then, can I touch? What brick, what stone? and so draw myself across the enormous gulf into my body safely?

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.

#OnThisDay 83 years ago, Virginia Woolf died. But she left us a legacy that will reverberate for centuries.

June was white. I see the fields white with daisies, and white with dresses; and tennis courts marked with white. Then there was wind and violent thunder. There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, “Consume me". That was at midsummer.

‘I have torn off the whole of May and June,’ said Susan, ‘and twenty days of July. I have torn them off and screwed them up so that they no longer exist, save as a weight in my side. They have been crippled days, like moths with shrivelled wings unable to fly.