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.

I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.

Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.

She’ll have no lover, for I don’t want her and she’ll see no other.

I often want to cry. That is the only advantage women have over men — at least they can cry.

There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.

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.