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I've been so ridiculous all my life that a little bit more or a little bit less hardly matters now.

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
Matters
Bits
Less
Littles
Little
Matter
Life
Hardly
Ridiculous

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There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.
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Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.
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Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.
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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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Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books.
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I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.
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There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
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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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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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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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Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.
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After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.
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And then the days came when I was alone.
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Your red dress,’ she said, and laughed. But I looked at the dress on the floor and it was as if the fire had spread across the room. It was beautiful and it reminded me of something I must do. I will remember I thought. I will remember quite soon now.
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Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.
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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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I am the only real truth I know.
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If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.
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It is strange how sad it can be - sunlight in the afternoon, don't you think?
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
Jean Rhys