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And what does anyone know about traitors, or why Judas did what he did?

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
Traitors
Judas
Traitor
Betrayal
Anyone
Doe

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Quite like old times,' the room says.
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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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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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Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.
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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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All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.
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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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The rumble of the life outside was like the sound of the sea which was rising gradually around her.
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I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.
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Human beings are struggling, and so they are egoists. But it's wrong to say that they are wholy cruel - it's a deformed view.
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There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.
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As it was in the beginning, ... is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
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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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I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.
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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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I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what's called loving as I was - more lost and drowned afterwards.
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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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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...I know all about myself now, I know. You've told me so often. You haven't left me one rag of illusion to clothe myself in.
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