Virginia Woolf

The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty observations, has a romance of its own.

I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.

We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.

The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mold of the body and mind.

For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?

Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?