Woolf Short Stories, Virginia Woolf
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Woolf Short Stories

A collection of stories by British writer Virginia Woolf: The Mark on the Wall, Kew Gardens, Solid Objects, An Unwritten Novel, A Haunted House, Monday or Tuesday, The String Quartet, Society, Blue and Green, In the Orchard, Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street, A Woman’s College From Outside, The New Dress, Moments of Being, The Lady in the Looking-Glass, The Shooting Party, The Duchess and The Jeweller, Lappin and Lappinova, The Man Who Loved His Kind, The Searchlight, The Legacy, Together and Apart, A Summing Up.
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Woolf Short Stories, Virginia Woolf
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brockenbach
brockenbachshared an impression9 months ago
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order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw.
once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it happened
Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour-landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's hair flying back like the tail of a race-horse. Yes, that seems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard. . .
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object
what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilization-
her a
They were elderly and burnished into a glowing smoothness, so that Roderick Serle would go, perhaps to a dozen parties in a season, and feel nothing out of the common, or only sentimental regrets, and the desire for pretty images-like this of the flowering cherry tree-and all the time there stagnated in him unstirred a sort of superiority to his company, a sense of untapped resources, which sent him back home dissatisfied with life, with himself, yawning, empty, capricious.
How peaceful it is drown here,
Mabel had her first serious suspicion that something was wrong as she took her cloak off and Mrs. Barnet, while handing her the mirror and touching the brushes and thus drawing her attention, perhaps rather markedly, to all the appliances for tidying and improving hair,
As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of glassiness, in our eyes. And the novelists in future will realize more and more the importance of these reflections, for of course there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number; those are the depths they will explore, those the phantoms they will pursue, leaving the description of reality more and more out of their stories
her shiver all over. Perhaps it would be better when dusk fell. She went home and sat over the fire, without a light, and tried to imagine that she was out alone on a moor; and there was a st
THE MARK ON THE WALL
because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it happened.
s to be found in plenty, but broken in some trifling do
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. . . If that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a picture, it must have been for a miniature-the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations.
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