I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
Virginia WoolfRead
But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote explores the complexity of self-identity and introspection.
Virginia Woolf's quote delves into the nature of self-awareness and the internal dialogues we have within ourselves. It suggests that the self is multifaceted and often grapples with its own fears and desires, represented by a 'coward' retreating into 'dark corridors' of introspection, yet this process is recognized as a form of beauty because it reflects a search for deeper understanding and connection with one's inner spirit.
Themes
SelfIntrospectionIdentitySpiritCowardiceBeauty
In practice
Example use cases
In a reflective essay about personal growth, one might use this quote to illustrate the struggles of understanding oneself.
More from Virginia Woolf
All quotes →Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)
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He began to search among the infinite series of impressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain; among scents, sounds; voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; and lights passing, and brooms tapping; and the wash and hush of the sea.
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I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts.
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I do think all good and evil comes from words. I have to tune myself into a good temper with something musical, and I run to a book as a child to its mother.
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London perpetually attracts, stimulates, gives me a play and a story and a poem, without any trouble, save that of moving my legs through the streets... To walk alone through London is the greatest rest.
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