very few people change after well say seven or seventeen. Not really. They get more this or more that and of course look a bit different. But inside they are the same.

Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights.

Today I must be very careful, today I have left my armor at home.

very few people change after well say seven or seventeen. Not really. They get more this or more that and of course look a bit different. But inside they are the same.

Everything tender and melancholy - as life is sometimes, just for one moment.

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.