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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
Ungenerous
Haunts
Haunted
Action

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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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It was like letting go and falling back into water and seeing yourself grinning up through the water, your face like a mask, and seeing the bubbles coming up as if you were trying to speak from under the water. And how do you know what it's like to try to speak from under water when you're drowned?
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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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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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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You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world.
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Quite like old times,' the room says.
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There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
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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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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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It is strange how sad it can be - sunlight in the afternoon, don't you think?
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Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.
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When I think about it, if I had to choose, I'd rather be happy than write.
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Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.
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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 must write. If I stop writing my life will have been an abject failure. It is that already to other people. But it could be an abject failure to myself. I will not have earned death.
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She could give herself up to the written word as naturally as a good dancer to music or a fine swimmer to water. The only difficulty was that after finishing the last sentence she was left with a feeling at once hollow and uncomfortably full. Exactly like indigestion.
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There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.
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She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.
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The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
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