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.
Jean RhysI have tried," I said, "but he does not believe me. It is too late for that now" (it is always too late for truth, I thought).
Jean Rhys...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.
Jean RhysI watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what's called loving as I was - more lost and drowned afterwards.
Jean Rhys