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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.

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
Book
Sorts
Quantity
Thank
Solitude
Contrary
Quite
Books
Objected
Heaven
Quantities

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And what does anyone know about traitors, or why Judas did what he did?
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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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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.
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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 like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.
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What you take to be hyprocrisy is sometimes a certain caution, sometimes genuine, though ponderous, childish, sometimes a mixture of both.
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I want more of this feeling - fire and wings.
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She haunted him, as an ungenerous action haunts one.
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Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
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We can't all be happy, we can't all be rich, we can't all be lucky - and it would be so much less fun if we were... There must be the dark background to show up the bright colours.
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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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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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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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I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.
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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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I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.
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I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
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She’ll have no lover, for I don’t want her and she’ll see no other.
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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.
Jean Rhys