Virginia WOOLF
(1882-1941)
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Wikipedia article for Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf was an English writer and essayist. We have most
of her works at this site and they consistently rank as some of the
most popular ebooks accessed. At the bottom of this page you will
find a few snippets of her writing.
The article on Woolf at Wikipedia states
that she "is considered one of the greatest innovators in the
English language. In her works she experimented with
stream-of-consciousness, the underlying psychological as well as
emotional motives of characters, and the various possibilities of
fractured narrative and chronology. In the words of E. M. Forster,
she pushed the English language 'a little further against the
dark,' and her literary achievements and creativity are influential
even today."
Major Works of Virginia Woolf:
- The Voyage Out (Novel--1915)
- Night and Day (Novel--1919)
- Monday or Tuesday (Short Stories--1921)
- Jacob's Room (Novel--1922)
- Mrs Dalloway (Novel--1925)
- The Common Reader (Essays--1925)
- To the Lighthouse (Novel--1927)
- Orlando: A Biography (Novel--1928)
- A Room of One's Own (Essay--1929)
- The Waves (Novel--1931)
- Flush: A Biography (1933)
- The Common Reader Second Series (Essays--1935)
- The Years (Novel 1937)
- Three Guineas (Essay--1938)
- Between the Acts (Novel 1941)
- Collected Essays
- Collected Short Stories
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Contents of Virginia Woolf's
Short Story and Essay Collections
ESSAYS
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SHORT STORIES
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THE COMMON READER (1925)
The Common Reader
The Pastors and Chaucer
On not knowing Greek
The Elizabethan Lumber Room
Notes on an Elizabethan Play
Montaigne
The Duchess of Newcastle
Rambling round Evelyn
Defoe
Addison
Lives of the Obscure--Taylors and Edgeworths
Lives of the Obscure--Laetitia Pilkington
Jane Austin
Modern Fiction
Jayne Eyre' and 'Wuthering Heights'
George Eliot
The Russian Point of View
Outlines--Miss Mitford
Outlines--Bentley
Outlines--Lady Dorothy Nevill
Outlines--Archbishop Thomson
The Patron and the Crocus
The Modern Essay
Joseph Conrad
How it strikes a Contemporary
THE COMMON READER: SECOND SERIES (1932)
The Strange Elizabethans
Donne After Three Centuries
"The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia"
"Robinson Crusoe"
Dorothy Osborne's "Letters"
Swift's "Journal of Stella"
The "Sentimental Journey"
Lord Chesterfield's Letters to his Son
Two Parsons: James Woodforde; John Skinner
Dr. Burney's Evening Party
Jack Mytton
De Quincey's Autobiography
Four Figures: Cowper and Lady Austen; Beau
Brummell; Mary Wollstonecraft; Dorothy
Wordsworth
William Hazlitt
Geraldine and Jane
"Aurora Leigh"
The Niece of an Earl
George Gissing
The Novels of George Meredith
"I am Christina Rossetti"
The Novels of Thomas Hardy
How Should One Read a Book?
THE DEATH OF THE MOTH AND OTHER ESSAYS (1942)
The Death Of The Moth
Evening Over Sussex: Reflections in a Motor Car
Three Pictures
Old Mrs. Grey
Street Haunting: A London Adventure
"Twelfth Night" at the Old Vic
Madame de Sévigné
The Humane Art
Two Antiquaries: Walpole and Cole
The Rev. William Cole: A Letter
The Historian and "The Gibbon"
Reflections at Sheffield Place
The Man at the Gate
Sara Coleridge
"Not One Of Us"
Henry James
1. Within the Rim
2. The Old Order
3. The Letters of Henry James
George Moore
The Novels of E. M. Forster
Middlebrow
The Art of Biography
Craftsmanship
A Letter to a Young Poet
Why?
Professions for Women
Thoughts on Peace in an Air Raid
THE CAPTAIN'S DEATH BED AND OTHER ESSAYS (1950)
Editorial Note
Oliver Goldsmith
White's Selborne
Life Itself
Crabbe
Selina Trimmer
The Captain's Death Bed
Ruskin
The Novels Of Turgenev
Half Of Thomas Hardy
Leslie Stephen
Mr. Conrad: A Conversation
The Cosmos
Walter Raleigh
Mr. Bennett And Mrs. Brown
All About Books
Reviewing
Modern Letters
Reading
The Cinema
Walter Sickert
Flying Over London
The Sun And The Fish
Gas
Thunder At Wembley
Memories Of A Working Women's Guild
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MONDAY OR TUESDAY (1919)
A Haunted House
A Society
Monday or Tuesday
An Unwritten Novel
The String Quartet
Blue & Green
Kew Gardens
The Mark on the Wall
A HAUNTED HOUSE (1944)
A Haunted House
Monday or Tuesday
An Unwritten Novel
The String Quartet
Kew Gardens
The Mark on the Wall
The New Dress
The Shooting Party
Lappin and Lappinova
Solid Objects
The Lady in the Looking-Glass
The Duchess and the Jeweller
Moments of Being. "Slater's Pins have no Points"
The Man who Loved his Kind
The Searchlight
The Legacy
Together and Apart
A Summing Up
THE COMPLETE SHORTER FICTION (1985)
Phyllis and Rosamond
The Mysterious Case of Miss V.
The Journal of Mistress Joan Martyn
Memoirs of a Novelist
The Mark on the Wall
Kew Gardens
The Evening Party
Solid Objects
Sympathy
An Unwritten Novel
A Haunted House A Society
Monday or Tuesday
The String Quartet
Blue & Green
A Woman's College from Outside
In the Orchard
Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street
Nurse Lugton's Curtain
The Widow and the Parrot: A True Story
The New Dress
Happiness
Ancestors
The Introduction
Together and Apart
The Man who Loved his Kind
A Simple Melody
A Summing Up
Moments of Being. "Slater's Pins have no Points"
The Lady in the Looking-Glass
The Fascination of the Pool
Three Pictures
Scenes from the Life of a British Naval Officer
Miss Pryme
Ode Written Partly in Prose
Portraits
Uncle Vanya
The Duchess and the Jeweller
The Shooting Party
Lappin and Lappinova
The Searchlight
Gypsy, the Mongrel
The Legacy
The Symbol
The Watering Place
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Extracts from Virginia Woolf's
writing
Thus, glancing round the bookshop, we make other such sudden
capricious friendships with the unknown and the vanished whose only
record is, for example, this little book of poems, so fairly
printed, so finely engraved, too, with a portrait of the author.
For he was a poet and drowned untimely, and his verse, mild as it
is and formal and sententious, sends forth still a frail fluty
sound like that of a piano organ played in some back street
resignedly by an old Italian organ-grinder in a corduroy jacket.
There are travellers, too, row upon row of them, still testifying,
indomitable spinsters that they were, to the discomforts that they
endured and the sunsets they admired in Greece when Queen Victoria
was a girl. A tour in Cornwall with a visit to the tin mines was
thought worthy of voluminous record. People went slowly up the
Rhine and did portraits of each other in Indian ink, sitting
reading on deck beside a coil of rope; they measured the pyramids;
were lost to civilization for years; converted negroes in
pestilential swamps. This packing up and going off, exploring
deserts and catching fevers, settling in India for a lifetime,
penetrating even to China and then returning to lead a parochial
life at Edmonton, tumbles and tosses upon the dusty floor like an
uneasy sea, so restless the English are, with the waves at their
very door. The waters of travel and adventure seem to break upon
little islands of serious effort and lifelong industry stood in
jagged column upon the floor. In these piles of puce-bound volumes
with gilt monograms on the back, thoughtful clergymen expound the
gospels; scholars are to be heard with their hammers and their
chisels chipping clear the ancient texts of Euripides and
Aeschylus. Thinking, annotating, expounding goes on at a prodigious
rate all around us and over everything, like a punctual,
everlasting tide, washes the ancient sea of fiction. Innumerable
volumes tell how Arthur loved Laura and they were separated and
they were unhappy and then they met and they were happy ever after,
as was the way when Victoria ruled these islands.
From "Street Haunting: A London Adventure"
At the thought of all those women working year after year and
finding it hard to get two thousand pounds together, and as much as
they could do to get thirty thousand pounds, we burst out in scorn
at the reprehensible poverty of our sex. What had our mothers been
doing then that they had no wealth to leave us? Powdering their
noses? Looking in at shop windows? Flaunting in the sun at Monte
Carlo? There were some photographs on the mantelpiece. Mary's
mother--if that was her picture--may have been a wastrel in her
spare time (she had thirteen children by a minister of the church),
but if so her gay and dissipated life had left too few traces of
its pleasures on her face. She was a homely body; an old lady in a
plaid shawl which was fastened by a large cameo; and she sat in a
basket-chair, encouraging a spaniel to look at the camera, with the
amused, yet strained expression of one who is sure that the dog
will move directly the bulb is pressed. Now if she had gone into
business; had become a manufacturer of artificial silk or a magnate
on the Stock Exchange; if she had left two or three hundred
thousand pounds to Fernham, we could have been sitting at our ease
to-night and the subject of our talk might have been archaeology,
botany, anthropology, physics, the nature of the atom, mathematics,
astronomy, relativity, geography. If only Mrs Seton and her mother
and her mother before her had learnt the great art of making money
and had left their money, like their fathers and their grandfathers
before them, to found fellowships and lectureships and prizes and
scholarships appropriated to the use of their own sex, we might
have dined very tolerably up here alone off a bird and a bottle of
wine; we might have looked forward without undue confidence to a
pleasant and honourable lifetime spent in the shelter of one of the
liberally endowed professions. We might have been exploring or
writing; mooning about the venerable places of the earth; sitting
contemplative on the steps of the Parthenon, or. going at ten to an
office and coming home comfortably at half-past four to write a
little poetry. Only, if Mrs Seton and her like had gone into
business at the age of fifteen, there would have been--that was the
snag in the argument--no Mary. What, I asked, did Mary think of t
hat? There between the curtains was the October night, calm and
lovely, with a star or two caught in the yellowing trees. Was she
ready to resign her share of it and her memories (for they had been
a happy family, though a large one) of games and quarrels up in
Scotland, which she is never tired of praising for the fineness of
its air and the quality of its cakes, in order that Fernham might
have been endowed with fifty thousand pounds or so by a stroke of
the pen? For, to endow a college would necessitate the suppression
of families altogether. Making a fortune and bearing thirteen
children--no human being could stand it. Consider the facts, we
said. First there are nine months before the baby is born. Then the
baby is born. Then there are three or four months spent in feeding
the baby. After the baby is fed there are certainly five years
spent in playing with the baby. You cannot, it seems, let children
run about the streets. People who have seen them running wild in
Russia say that the sight is not a pleasant one. People say, too,
that human nature takes its shape in the years between one and
five. If Mrs Seton, I said, had been making money, what sort of
memories would you have had of games and quarrels? What would you
have known of Scotland, and its fine air and cakes and all the rest
of it? But it is useless to ask these questions, because you would
never have come into existence at all. Moreover, it is equally
useless to ask what might have happened if Mrs Seton and her mother
and her mother before her had amassed great wealth and laid it
under the foundations of college and library, because, in the first
place, to earn money was impossible for them, and in the second,
had it been possible, the law denied them the right to possess what
money they earned. It is only for the last forty-eight years that
Mrs Seton has had a penny of her own. For all the centuries before
that it would have been her husband's property--a thought which,
perhaps, may have had its share in keeping Mrs Seton and her
mothers off the Stock Exchange. Every penny I earn, they may have
said, will be taken from me and disposed of according to my
husband's wisdom--perhaps to found a scholarship or to endow a
fellowship in Balliol or Kings, so that to earn money, even if I
could earn money, is not a matter that interests me very greatly. I
had better leave it to my husband.
From "A Room of One's Own"
But these contributions to the dangerous and fascinating subject
of the psychology of the other sex--it is one, I hope, that you
will investigate when you have five hundred a year of your
own--were interrupted by the necessity of paying the bill. It came
to five shillings and ninepence. I gave the waiter a ten-shilling
note and he went to bring me change. There was another ten-shilling
note in my purse; I noticed it, because it is a fact that still
takes my breath away the power of my purse to breed ten-shilling
notes automatically. I open it and there they are. Society gives me
chicken and coffee, bed and lodging, in return for a certain number
of pieces of paper which were left me by an aunt, for no other
reason than that I share her name.
From "A Room of One's Own"
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