As it was in the beginning, ... is now, and ever shall be, world without end.

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 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).

The musty smell, the bugs, the lonliness, this room, which is part of the street outside-this is all I want from life.

I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.

I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.

Stephan was secretive and a liar, but he was a very gentle and expert lover. She was the petted, cherished child, the desired mistress, the worshipped, perfumed goddess. She was all these things to Stephan - or so he made her believe.