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.
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.
There is always the other side, always.
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.
A room is, after all, a place where you hide from the wolves. That's all any room is.
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.
Have all beautiful things sad destinies?
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.
It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
Some must cry so that others may be able to laugh the more heartily. Sacrifices are necessary.
There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
Sometimes the Earth trembles; sometimes you can feel it breathe.
I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
If all good, respectable people had one face, I'd spit in it.
All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.
...morbidly, attracted him to strangeness, to recklessnesss, even unhappiness.
Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.
I have arranged my little life.
For the first time she had dimly realized that only the hopeless are starkly sincere and that only the unhappy can either give or take sympathy--even some of the bitter and dangerous voluptuousness of misery.
I took the red dress down and put it against myself. 'Does it make me look intemperate and unchaste?' I said.
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