History is too much about wars — biography too much about great men
History is too much about wars — biography too much about great men
History is too much about wars — biography too much about great men
History is too much about wars — biography too much about great men
History is too much about wars — biography too much about great men
Download Customize

History is too much about wars

— biography too much about great men
Pin Share Tweet Telegram
Topics
virginia woolf a room of one's own

More “Virginia woolf” Quotes

They all dreamt of each other that night, as was natural, considering how thin the partitions were between them, and how — Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out
But what if, either by choice or by reluctant necessity, you end up not participating in this comforting cycle of family — Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love
More than anything, I began to hate women writers. Frances Burney, Jane Austen, Elizabeth Browning, Mary Shelley, George — Catherine Lowell, The Madwoman Upstairs
That is why Napoleon and Mussolini both insist so emphatically upon the inferiority of women, for if they were not infer — Virginia Woolf
Does it explain my astonishment the other day when Z, most humane, most modest of men, taking up some book by Rebecca We — Virginia Woolf
I should never be able to fulfill what is,I understand, the first duty of a lecturer-to hand you after an hour's discour — Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own
Here she tossed her foot impatiently, and showed an inch or two of calf. A sailor on the mast, who happened to look down — Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. — Virginia Woolf, Orlando
I wished I hadn’t majored in women filling their pockets with stones and sticking their heads into ovens. Maybe tomorrow — Kat Clark
Stepping through fields of flowers and taking to her breast buds that had broken and lambs that had fallen — with the stars in her eyes and the wind in her hair— He took her bag.
Stepping through fields of flowers and taking to her brest buds that had broken and lambs that had fallen — with the stars in her eyes and wind in her hair– he took her bag.
It's too short,' she said, 'ever so much too short.' Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black, half-way down, in — Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse