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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
Heard
Almost
Read
Persons
Person
Book
Imagined
Thing
Baby
Strange

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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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...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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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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One realized all sorts of things. The value of an illusion, for instance, and that the shadow can be more important than the substance. All sorts of things.
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Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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We can't all be happy, we can't all be rich, we can't all be lucky - and it would be so much less fun if we were... There must be the dark background to show up the bright colours.
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Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.
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I have arranged my little life.
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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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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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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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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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Quite like old times,' the room says.
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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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Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.
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Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.
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I must write. If I stop writing my life will have been an abject failure. It is that already to other people. But it could be an abject failure to myself. I will not have earned death.
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Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.
Jean Rhys