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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
Children
Would
Healing
Hurt
Child
Words
Found

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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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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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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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There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
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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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I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
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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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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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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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And then the days came when I was alone.
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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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Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.
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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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She’ll have no lover, for I don’t want her and she’ll see no other.
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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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The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.
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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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