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I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.

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
Lioness
Circus

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You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world.
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And what does anyone know about traitors, or why Judas did what he did?
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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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Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.
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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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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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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 haunted him, as an ungenerous action haunts one.
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Quite like old times,' the room says.
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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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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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And then the days came when I was alone.
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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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Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
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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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I must write. If I stop writing my life will have been an abject failure. It is that already to other people. But it could be an abject failure to myself. I will not have earned death.
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The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
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Love was a terrible thing. You poisoned it and stabbed at it and knocked it down into the mud - well down - and it got up and staggered on, bleeding and muddy and awful. Like - like Rasputin.
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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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There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
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