Next week, or next month, or next year I will kill myself. But I might as well last out my month's rent, which has been paid up.

It was the darkness that got you. It was heavy darkness, greasy and compelling. It made walls round you, and shut you in so that you felt like you could not breathe.

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.

They say when trouble comes close ranks, and so the white people did.

Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.

Now at last I know why I was brought here and what I have to do.

He had discovered that people who allow themselves to be blown about by the winds of emotion and impulse are always unhappy people.