Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
When I think about it, if I had to choose, I'd rather be happy than write. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
I must write. If I stop writing my life will have been an abject failure. It is that already to other people.… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
“…one of those long, romantic novels, six hundred and fifty pages of small print, translated from French or German or Hungarian or… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
As soon as I turned the key I saw it hanging, the color of fire and sunset. the colour of flamboyant flowers. ‘If you… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
Human beings are struggling, and so they are egoists. But it's wrong to say that they are wholy cruel - it's a deformed view. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
“THe room was large and low-ceilinged, the striped wallpaper faded to inoffensiveness. A huge dark wardrobe faced a huge dark bed. The rest of… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
Blot out the moon, Pull down the stars. Love in the dark, for we're for the dark So soon, so soon. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
“But in the daytime it was all right. And when you'd had a drink you knew it was the best way to live in… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
Everything tender and melancholy - as life is sometimes, just for one moment. — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
“You are walking along a road peacefully. You trip. You fall into blackness. That's the past - or perhaps the future. And you know… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
“She spent the foggy day in endless, aimless walking, for it seemed to her that if she moved quickly enough she would escape the… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
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,… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
She could give herself up to the written word as naturally as a good dancer to music or a fine swimmer to water. The… — Jean Rhys Copy Share Image
