“I went from one to the other holding my sorrow - no, not my sorrow but theincomprehensible nature of this our life - for their inspection. Some people goto priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek amongphrases and fragments something unbroken - I to whom there is no beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all,yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, sounspeakably lonely.”
In this quote by Virginia Woolf, the speaker expresses a deep sense of loneliness and a search for solace. The speaker describes seeking comfort in sharing their sorrow with others, turning to friends, their own heart, and phrases to try to find something unbroken in the incomprehensible nature of life. Despite acknowledging the beauty in the world, the speaker still feels a profound sense of imperfection, weakness, and loneliness. This passage beautifully captures the struggle of finding connection and understanding in a complex and often isolating world.
In today's fast-paced and digitally connected world, Virginia Woolf's poignant reflection on seeking solace and understanding within oneself and among friends resonates deeply. With the pervasive use of social media and technology, many people still struggle with feelings of loneliness, imperfection, and the incomprehensible nature of life. This quote serves as a reminder of the importance of genuine human connections and self-reflection in finding solace and meaning in our lives.
"I went from one to the other holding my sorrow - no, not my sorrow but the incomprehensible nature of this our life - for their inspection. Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken - I to whom there is no beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely." - Virginia Woolf
This quote from Virginia Woolf delves into the depths of human emotion and the search for connection and understanding in a world that sometimes feels overwhelmingly lonely. Take some time to reflect on the following questions:
How do you typically cope with feelings of sorrow or loneliness? Do you turn to others, to art, to nature, or to your inner self?
Do you resonate with Woolf's description of seeking something unbroken among phrases and fragments? What parts of your life or experiences bring you a sense of wholeness or connection?
In what ways do you feel imperfect or weak, and how does this impact your ability to form meaningful connections with others?
Have you ever struggled to find beauty or solace in the world around you, despite others finding it easily? How do you navigate feelings of isolation or disconnect in those moments?
How do you interpret Woolf's exploration of the complexity of human relationships and the challenges of truly grasping connection with others?
“I to my friends, to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken.”
“Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends. --Bernard, The Waves”
“I am one who will force himself to desert these windy and moonlit territories, these midnight wanderings, and confront grained oak doors. I will achieve in my life - heaven grant that it be not long - some gigantic amalgamation between the two discrepancies so hideously apparent to me. Out of my suffering I will do it. I will knock. I will enter.”
“What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.”
“I addressed my self as one would speak to a companion with whom one is voyaging to the North Pole.”
“I ask now, standing with my scissors among my flowers, Where can the shadow enter? [. . .] I am sick of the body, I am sick of my own craft, industry and cunning, of the unscrupulous ways of the mother who protects, who collects under her jealous eyes at one long table her own children, always her own.”