Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books.

The rumble of the life outside was like the sound of the sea which was rising gradually around her.

I took the red dress down and put it against myself. 'Does it make me look intemperate and unchaste?' I said.

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.

Your red dress,’ she said, and laughed. But I looked at the dress on the floor and it was as if the fire had spread across the room. It was beautiful and it reminded me of something I must do. I will remember I thought. I will remember quite soon now.

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.

I'm no use to anybody,' I say. 'I'm a cérébrale, can't you see that?' Thinking how funny a book would be, called 'Just a Cérébrale or You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming'. Only, of course, to be accepted as authentic, to carry any conviction, it would have to be written by a man. What a pity, what a pity!