I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?
Virginia WoolfAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Composer, Writer
- Nationality: british
- Born: January 25, 1882
- Died: March 28, 1941