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Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.

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
Moment
Moments
Thought
Even
Fades
Forgotten
Eternity
Dies

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The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
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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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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 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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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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There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.
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I hadn't bargained for this. I didn't think it would be like this - shabby clothes, worn-out shoes, circles under your eyes, your hair getting straight and lanky, the way people look at you. ... I didn't think it would be like this
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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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It is strange how sad it can be - sunlight in the afternoon, don't you think?
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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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If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.
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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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It was like letting go and falling back into water and seeing yourself grinning up through the water, your face like a mask, and seeing the bubbles coming up as if you were trying to speak from under the water. And how do you know what it's like to try to speak from under water when you're drowned?
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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 like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.
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All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.
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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 didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.
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And what does anyone know about traitors, or why Judas did what he did?
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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