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The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
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
Sunday
Everywhere
Heavy
Standing
Feeling
Friday
Feelings
Saturday
Stills
Melancholy
Still
Weekend
More quotes by Jean Rhys
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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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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As it was in the beginning, ... is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
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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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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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Quite like old times,' the room says.
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There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.
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I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
Jean Rhys
Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.
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Stephan was secretive and a liar, but he was a very gentle and expert lover. She was the petted, cherished child, the desired mistress, the worshipped, perfumed goddess. She was all these things to Stephan - or so he made her believe.
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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 found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.
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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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I've been so ridiculous all my life that a little bit more or a little bit less hardly matters now.
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It was the darkness that got you. It was heavy darkness, greasy and compelling. It made walls round you, and shut you in so that you felt like you could not breathe.
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And then the days came when I was alone.
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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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The rumble of the life outside was like the sound of the sea which was rising gradually around her.
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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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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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