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I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.

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
Healing
Hurt
Child
Words
Found
Children
Would

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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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Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.
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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 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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When I think about it, if I had to choose, I'd rather be happy than write.
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Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
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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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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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Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.
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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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I have arranged my little life.
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He had discovered that people who allow themselves to be blown about by the winds of emotion and impulse are always unhappy people.
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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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I want more of this feeling - fire and wings.
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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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It is strange how sad it can be - sunlight in the afternoon, don't you think?
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Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.
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There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.
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The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
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Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.
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