He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life. - Virginia Woolf, Orlando
"He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life."
"He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life."
"Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?"
"The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice."
"Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust."
"For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver."
"Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?"