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She haunted him, as an ungenerous action haunts one.

Jean Rhys

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Jean Rhys
Age: 88 †
Born: 1890
Born: August 24
Died: 1979
Died: May 14
Novelist
Writer
Ella Gwendolen Rees Williams
Ella Rees Williams
Action
Ungenerous
Haunts
Haunted

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I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.
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Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.
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Soon he'll come in again and kiss me, but differently. He'll be different and so I'll be different. It'll be different. I thought, 'It'll be different, different. It must be different.
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Quite like old times,' the room says.
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I am the only real truth I know.
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It was the darkness that got you. It was heavy darkness, greasy and compelling. It made walls round you, and shut you in so that you felt like you could not breathe.
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All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.
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Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.
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I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
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I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.
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Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.
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The musty smell, the bugs, the lonliness, this room, which is part of the street outside-this is all I want from life.
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But they never last, the golden days. And it can be sad, the sun in the afternoon, can't it? Yes, it can be sad, the afternoon sun, sad and frightening.
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before I could read, almost a baby, I imagined that God, this strange thing or person I heard about, was a book.
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He had discovered that people who allow themselves to be blown about by the winds of emotion and impulse are always unhappy people.
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The woman had a humble, cringing manner. Of course, she had discovered that, having neither money nor virtue, she had better be humble if she knew what was good for her.
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One realized all sorts of things. The value of an illusion, for instance, and that the shadow can be more important than the substance. All sorts of things.
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There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
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When he talked his eyes went away from mine and then he forced himself to look straight at me and he began to explain and I knew that he felt very strange with me and that he hated me, and it was funny sitting there and talking like that, knowing he hated me.
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Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.
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