Virginia Woolf Zitate

seite 11

„Und du wünschst dir, ein Dichter zu sein; und du wünschst dir, ein Liebhaber zu sein.“

„Manche Menschen gehen zu Priestern, andere in Poesie, ich zu meinen Freunden. --Bernard, Die Wellen“

„Wir haben die seltsame Kraft, Tatsachen durch die Kraft der Einbildung zu verändern.“

„Ich habe ein tief verborgenes, unausgesprochenes Verlangen nach etwas jenseits des täglichen Lebens.“

„Ich wollte über den Tod schreiben, nur das Leben brach wie immer ein.“

„Warum sind Frauen für Männer soviel interessanter als Männer für Frauen?“

„In Wahrheit habe ich als Frau kein Land. Als Frau will ich kein Land haben. Als Frau ist mein Land die ganze Welt.“

„Solange sie an einen Mann denkt, hat niemand etwas gegen das Denken einer Frau einzuwenden.“

„Viele erfolgreiche Männer haben keine erfolgreichen Qualifikationen außer der, keine Frau zu sein.“

„Frauen haben all diese Jahrhunderte als Spiegel gedient, die die magische und köstliche Kraft besitzen, die Figur des Mannes in doppelter natürlicher Größe widerzuspiegeln.“

„Wenn du nicht da bist, verschwindet die Farbe aus dem Leben, wie Wasser aus einem Schwamm; und ich existiere nur noch, trocken und staubig.
Ich habe Freunde verloren, manche durch (natürlichen) Tod… andere durch reine Unfähigkeit, die Straße zu überqueren.“

„Ethels neuer Hund ist tot. Die Wahrheit ist, kein Hund kann die Anstrengung aushalten, mit Ethel zu leben.“

„Wer uns unserer Träume beraubt, beraubt uns unseres Lebens.“

„Wir wollen es nicht als selbsverständlich hinnehmen, dass das Leben sich voller in dem entfaltet, was man gewöhnlich für groß hält, als in dem, was man gewöhnlich für klein hält.“

„Alles, was ich Ihnen sagen kann, ist, dass ich entdecke, als ich zu schreiben begann, dass eine Frau - es klingt so einfach, aber ich sollte mich schämen, Ihnen zu sagen, wie lange ich brauchte, das selbst zu entdecken- nicht ein Mann ist. Ihre Erfahrung ist nicht die gleiche. Ihre Traditionen sind anders. Ihre Werte, sowohl in der Kunst wie im Leben, sind ihre eigenen.“

„Aufwachsen bedeutet, einige Illusionen zu verlieren, um sich andere anzueignen.“

„Schreiben ist wie Sex. Zuerst machst du es aus Liebe, dann machst du es für deine Freunde und dann machst du es für Geld.“

„Bücher sind Spiegel der Seele.“

„Es macht nichts, wenn es Fehlschüsse gibt und Ausrutscher. Wenn ich mit solch einem Tempo schreibe, muss ich meinen Gegenstand so schnell und direkt wie möglich treffen und muss also Worte packen, wählen und abschiessen, ohne mehr Zeit zu verlieren, als ich brauche, um meine Feder in die Tinte zu tauchen.“

„Männer nehmen die Welt nicht wahr, weil sie selber glauben, sie seien die Welt.“

„Manchmal denke ich, der Himmel besteht aus ununterbrochenem, niemals ermüdendem Lesen.“

„Keine Leidenschaft ist stärker in der menschlichen Brust als das Verlangen, andere glauben zu machen, was man selbst glaubt.“

„Frauen waren jahrhundertelang ein Vergrößerungsspiegel, der es den Männern ermöglichte, sich selbst in doppelter Lebensgröße zu sehen.“

„Wenn du nicht die Wahrheit über dich selbst sagst, kannst du ihr nichts über andere Leute erzählen.“

„Das Verlangen zu lesen ist wie alle anderen Sehnsüchte, die unsere unglücklich Seele aufwühlen, der Analyse fähig.“

„Letzte Nacht las ich im Buch Hiob. Ich habe nicht den Eindruck, daß Gott da gut wegkommt.“

„Orlando liebte natürlich einsame Orte, weite Aussichten und genoss es sich für immer und ewig einsam zu fühlen.“

„Alle Extreme des Gefühls sind mit dem Wahnsinn im Bunde.“

„Der einzige Rat, den man jemand fürs Lesen geben kann, ist tatsächlich der, keinen Rat anzunehmen, dem eigenen Instinkt zu folgen, den eigenen Verstand zu gebrauchen und zu eigenen Schlussfolgerungen zu kommen.“

„Mrs. Dalloway gibt immer Parties, um die Stille zu überdecken“

„Man kann vielleicht nur ganz an das glauben, was man nicht sehen kann.“

„Ihr Lachen war hinreißend, ein unerhörtes Lachen, fast wie das eines Kindes. Jauchzendes Lachen, wenn etwas sie amüsierte.“

„Es scheint mir ganz unmöglich, Hosen zu tragen.“

„Kunst ist kein Abbild der realen Welt. Eine ist, bei Gott, mehr als genug.“

„Für jeden, der schreibt, ist es fatal, an sein Geschlecht zu denken. Es ist fatal, einfach ein Mann oder eine Frau zu sein. Es wäre besser, Frau-männlich oder Mann-weiblich zu sein.“

„Wenn Sie Dinge wie die Sterne betrachten, scheinen unsere Angelegenheiten nicht sehr wichtig zu sein, oder?“

„Wenn Menschen glücklich sind, haben sie eine Reserve, auf die sie zurückgreifen können, während sie wie ein Rad ohne Reifen war“

„Ich genieße den Frühling jetzt mehr als den Herbst. Man tut es, denke ich, wenn man älter wird.“

„Die Frau hat jahrhundertelang als Lupe gedient, welche die magische und köstliche Fähigkeit besaß, den Mann doppelt so groß zu zeigen, wie er von Natur aus ist.“

„Wenn ich groß bin, trage ich ein Heft - ein dickes Buch mit vielen Seiten, methodisch beschriftet. Ich werde meine Sätze eingeben.“

„Ihr Leben war ein Taschentuch der Eitelkeit und der Täuschung.“

„Warum sagt Samuel Butler: “Weise Männer sagen niemals, was sie über Frauen denken.“? Wie es scheint, sagen weise Männer nie etwas anderes.“

“There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death…”

“And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky.”

“I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.”

“… a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.”

“There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.”

“Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them; it is for you to seek out this truth and to decide whether any part of it is worth keeping.”

“When you are silent you are again beautiful.”

“Yes, I miss you, I miss you.”

“But one only woke people if one knew what one wanted to say to them. And she wanted to say not one thing, but everything. Little words that broke up the thought and dismembered it said nothing. 'About life, about death; about Mrs Ramsay”

“It was enemies one wanted, not friends.”

“Now, through my own infirmity I recover what he was to me: my opposite. Being naturally truthful, he did not see the point of these exaggerations, and was borne on by a natural sense of the fitting, was indeed a great master of the art of living so that he seems to have lived long, and to have spread calm round him, indifference one might almost say, certainly to his own advancement, save that he had also great compassion. […] We have no ceremonies, only private dirges and no conclusions, only violent sensations, each separate. Nothing that has been said meets our case. […] After a long lifetime, loosely, in a moment of revelation, I may lay hands on it, but now the idea breaks in my hand. Ideas break a thousand times for once that they globe themselves entire. […] I am yawning. I am glutted with sensations. I am exhausted with the strain and the long, long time — twenty-five minutes, half an hour — that I have held myself alone outside the machine.”

“The merest schoolgirl [school girl, ] when she falls in love, has Shakespeare or Keats to speak her mind for her; but let a sufferer [try to] describe a pain in his head to a doctor and language at once runs dry.”

“I like the copious, shapeless, warm, not so very clever, but extremely easy and rather coarse aspect of things; the talk of men in clubs and public-houses; of miners half naked in drawers — the forthright, perfectly unassuming, and without end in view except dinner, love, money and getting along tolerably; that which is without great hopes, ideals, or anything of that kind; what is unassuming except to make a tolerably, good job of it. I like all that.”

“But the novels of women were not affected only by the necessarily narrow range of the writer's experience. They showed, at least in the nineteenth century, another characteristic which may be traced to the writer's sex. In Middlemarch and in Jane Eyre we are conscious not merely of the writer's character, as we are conscious of the character of Charles Dickens, but we are conscious of a woman's presence — of someone resenting the treatment of her sex and pleading for its rights.”

“For some reason, we know not what, his childhood was sharply severed. It lodged in him whole and entire. He could not disperse it.”

“For our penitence deserves a glimpse only; our toil respite only.”

“Thought and theory must precede all salutary action; yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.”

“We may enjoy our room in the tower, with the painted walls and the commodious bookcases, but down in the garden there is a man digging who buried his father this morning, and it is he and his like who live the real life and speak the real language.”

“Outwardly, what is simpler than to write books? Outwardly, what obstacles are there for a woman rather than for a man? Inwardly, I think, the case is very different; she has still many ghosts to fight, many prejudices to overcome. Indeed it will be a long time still, I think, before a woman can sit down to write a book without finding a phantom to be slain, a rock to be dashed against. And if this is so in literature, the freest of all professions for women, how is it in the new professions which you are now for the first time entering?”

“In the past, the virtue of women's writing often lay in its divine spontaneity … But it was also, and much more often, chattering and garrulous … In future, granted time and books and a little space in the house for herself, literature will become for women, as for men, an art to be studied. Women's gift will be trained and strengthened. The novel will cease to be the dumping-ground for the personal emotions. It will become, more than at present, a work of art like any other, and its resources and its limitations will be explored.”

“At this Helen laughed outright. "Nonsense," she said. "You're not a Christian. You've never thought what you are.—And there are lots of other questions," she continued, "though perhaps we can't ask them yet." Although they had talked so freely they were all uncomfortably conscious that they really knew nothing about each other.
"The important questions," Hewet pondered, "the really interesting ones. I doubt that one ever does ask them."
Rachel, who was slow to accept the fact that only a very few things can be said even by people who know each other well, insisted on knowing what he meant.
"Whether we've ever been in love?" she enquired. "Is that the kind of question you mean?"”

“In brain and insight she is not as highly organised as I am. But then she is aware of this, and so lavishes on me the maternal protection which, for some reason, is what I have always most wished from everyone.”

“You are not listening to me. You are making phrases about Byron. And while you gesticulate, with your cloak, your cane, I am trying to expose a secret told to nobody yet; I am asking you (as I stand with my back to you) to take my life in your hands and tell me whether I am doomed always to cause repulsion in those I love?”

“Happiness is to have a little string onto which things will attach themselves.”

“Here I come to one of the memoir writer’s difficulties — one of the reasons why, though I read so many, so many are failures. They leave out the person to whom things happened. The reason is that it is so difficult to describe any human being. So they say: ‘This is what happened’; but they do not say what the person was like to whom it happened. Who was I then? Adeline Virginia Stephen, the second daughter of Leslie and Julia Prinsep Stephen, born on 25th January 1882, descended from a great many people, some famous, others obscure; born into a large connection, born not of rich parents, but of well-to-do parents, born into a very communicative, literate, letter writing, visiting, articulate, late nineteenth century world.”

“Margaret Ll. Davies writes that Janet is dying and will I write on her for The Times – a curious thought, rather: as if it mattered who wrote, or not. But this flooded me with the idea of Janet yesterday. I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.”

“A desire for children, I suppose; for Nessa's life; for the sense of flowers breaking all round me involuntarily. […] Years and years ago, after the Lytton affair, I said to myself, walking up the hill at Bayreuth, never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having; good advice I think. And then I went on to say to myself that one must like things for themselves; or rather, rid them of their bearing upon one's personal life. One must venture on to the things that exist independently of oneself. Now this is very hard for young women to do. Yet I got satisfaction from it. And now, married to L., I never have to make the effort. Perhaps I have been to happy for my soul's good? And does some of my discontent come from feeling that?”

“Morgan has the artist's mind; he says the simple things that clever people don't say; I find him the best of critics for that reason. Suddenly out comes the obvious thing that one has overlooked.”

“The chief charges against her were (1) that she was dead, and therefore could not hold any property; (2) that she was a woman which amounts to much the same thing …”