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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.

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
Never
Frightening
Afternoon
Golden
Sun
Days
Lasts
Last

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No past to make us sentimental, no future to embarrass us...a difficult moment when you are out of practice - a moment that makes you go cold, cold and wary.
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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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Next week, or next month, or next year I will kill myself. But I might as well last out my month's rent, which has been paid up.
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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 like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.
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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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As it was in the beginning, ... is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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And what does anyone know about traitors, or why Judas did what he did?
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that expression you get in your eyes when you are very tired and everything is like a dream and you are starting to know what things are like underneath what people say they are.
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I am the only real truth I know.
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And then the days came when I was alone.
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I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.
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Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
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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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Quite like old times,' the room says.
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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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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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I have arranged my little life.
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It is strange how sad it can be - sunlight in the afternoon, don't you think?
Jean Rhys