I would never be part of anything. I would never really belong anywhere, and I knew it, and all my life would be the same, trying to belong, and failing. Always something would go wrong. I am a stranger and I always will be, and after all I didn’t really care.
Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.
Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.
My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafés where they like me and cafés where they don't, streets that are friendly, streets that aren't, rooms where I might be happy, rooms where I shall never be, looking-glasses I look nice in, looking-glasses I don't, dresses that will be lucky, dresses that won't, and so on.
There is always the other side, always.
I am the only real truth I know.
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.
You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world.
All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.
A room is, after all, a place where you hide from the wolves. That's all any room is.
Have all beautiful things sad destinies?
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.
The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.
If all good, respectable people had one face, I'd spit in it.
Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
I've been so ridiculous all my life that a little bit more or a little bit less hardly matters now.
I want more of this feeling - fire and wings.
I think that the desire to be cruel and to hurt (with words because any other way might be dangerous to ourself) is part of human nature. Parties are battles (most parties), a conversation is a duel (often). Everybody's trying to hurt first, to get in the dig that will make him or her feel superior, feel triumph.
I have arranged my little life.
I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.
Now at last I know why I was brought here and what I have to do.
I long to be ... Like Other People! The extraordinary, ungetatable, oddly cruel Other People, with their way of wantonly hurting and then accusing you of being thin-skinned, sulky, vindictive or ridiculous.
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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