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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.

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
Person
Book
Imagined
Thing
Baby
Strange
Heard
Almost
Read
Persons

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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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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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She haunted him, as an ungenerous action haunts one.
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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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The rumble of the life outside was like the sound of the sea which was rising gradually around her.
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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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When he talked his eyes went away from mine and then he forced himself to look straight at me and he began to explain and I knew that he felt very strange with me and that he hated me, and it was funny sitting there and talking like that, knowing he hated me.
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And what does anyone know about traitors, or why Judas did what he did?
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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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When you are a child you are yourself and you know and see everything prophetically. And then suddenly something happens and you stop being yourself you become what others force you to be. You lose your wisdom and your soul.
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
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Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.
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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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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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It was the darkness that got you. It was heavy darkness, greasy and compelling. It made walls round you, and shut you in so that you felt like you could not breathe.
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It is strange how sad it can be - sunlight in the afternoon, don't you think?
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There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
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Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.
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