Winter is upon us; fog, frost, every horror. One creeps about the house longing only for bed. Even without a cold, one’s nose drips perpetually.

The Letters of Virginia Woolf, Vol. 2, 492

I dislike these months.

The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. 3, 177

But then, too, I have always liked the frozen water and the closed buds.

The Letters of Virginia Woolf, Vol. 3, 212