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Virginia Woolf

The Waves

  • Purr gysstцитируетв прошлом году
    There is the white house lying among the trees. It lies down there ever so far beneath us. We shall sink like swimmers just touching the ground with the tips of their toes. We shall sink through the green air of the leaves, Susan. We sink as we run. The waves close over us, the beech leaves meet above our heads.
  • Jasmine Lawsonцитирует4 года назад
    The sun had not yet risen. The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it. Gradually as the sky whitened a dark line lay on the horizon dividing the sea from the sky and the grey cloth became barred with thick strokes moving, one after another, beneath the surface, following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually.
  • İrem Güneyцитирует7 лет назад
    Pouring down the walls of my mind, running together, the day falls copious, resplendent.
  • Anna Avdeevaцитирует9 лет назад
    Yet I think it is likely that the best are made in solitude.
  • Hiba Amraouiцитирует3 месяца назад
    much better is silence; the coffee-cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee-cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
  • iva jovanovicцитирует10 месяцев назад
    But let me be unseen.
  • iva jovanovicцитирует10 месяцев назад
    I hold a stalk in my hand. I am the stalk. My roots go down to the depths of the world, through earth dry with brick, and damp earth, through veins of lead and silver. I am all fibre. All tremors shake me, and the weight of the earth is pressed to my ribs.
  • Simon Sushynskyцитируетв прошлом году
    All changes. And youth and love.
  • Simon Sushynskyцитируетв прошлом году
    Once you were Tolstoi's young man; now you are Byron's young man;
  • Simon Sushynskyцитируетв прошлом году
    This, I say to myself, is what I need; why, I ask, can I not finish the letter that I am writing? For my room is always scattered with unfinished letters. I begin to suspect, when I am with you, that I am among the most gifted of men. I am filled with the delight of youth, with potency, with the sense of what is to come. Blundering, but fervid, I see myself buzzing round flowers, humming down scarlet cups, making blue funnels resound with my prodigious booming. How richly I shall enjoy my youth (you make me feel). And London. And freedom. But stop.
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