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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
Even
Fades
Forgotten
Eternity
Dies
Moment
Moments
Thought

More quotes by Jean Rhys

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There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
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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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Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.
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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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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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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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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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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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Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.
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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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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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She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.
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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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I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
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There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.
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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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Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.
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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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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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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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