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.

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

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

I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.

I want more of this feeling - fire and wings.

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

It is strange how sad it can be - sunlight in the afternoon, don't you think?