If I write what I feel, it’s to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.
She became a ship passing in the night — an emblem of the loneliness of human life, an occasion for queer confidences and sudden appeals for sympathy.
― Virginia Woolf “The Voyage Out” (via fuckyeahexistentialism)
To praise his boots when he asked her to solace his soul.
― To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf (via sketchofthepast)