Jean Rhys
@MsJeanRhys
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Daily tweets from the author of Wide Sargasso Sea, Good Morning, Midnight etc. If I could choose, I would rather be happy than write.
Dominica, London, Paris, Devon
Joined April 2015
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EDITOR'S NOTE: If you respond to one of Ms Rhys's tweets, please be aware she is very, very unlikely to reply. Because she's dead.
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I had two longings & one was fighting the other. I wanted to be loved & I wanted to be always alone.
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My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafés where they like me and cafés where they don't...
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EDITOR’S NOTE: Ella Gwendolyn Rees Williams - Jean Rhys to you - was born on August 24th 1890. “My life has been turbulent and very boring.” Portrait by Paul Joyce, 1977.
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It was one of those days when you can see the ghosts of all the other lovely days. You drink a bit and watch the ghosts.
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It's all gone wrong, the whole country. Rain, rain, weeping for England. How I hate this country.
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EDITOR’S NOTE: If Twitter does collapse and this account ceases to exist, you can find almost all the quotes in Jean Rhys’s books, and in the correct order and original context too. So just read those.
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It was one of those days when you can see the ghosts of all the other lovely days. You drink a bit and watch the ghosts.
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It's all gone wrong, the whole country. Rain, rain, weeping for England. How I hate this country.
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I've thought about death a great deal. One day in the snow I felt so tired. I thought, Damn it, I'll sit down. I can't go on. I'm tired of living here in the snow and ice. So I sat down on the ground. But it was cold so I got up.
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EDITOR'S NOTE: Non-followers chiding Ms Rhys whilst seemingly unaware she died in 1979 are the best.
It's all gone wrong, the whole country. Rain, rain, weeping for England. How I hate this country.
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Oh, God, I'm only twenty and I'll have to go on living and living and living.
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EDITOR’S NOTE: Ella Gwendolyn Rees Williams - Jean Rhys to you - was born on August 24th 1890. “I've had rather a rum life, but I was thinking the other day, would I go through it all again? I think not.” Portrait by Paul Joyce, 1977.
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I'm going to try and relax, get my hair cut, buy a cheap dress, and generally pull myself together. Please wish me luck.
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When I read Jane Eyre as a child, I thought, why should she think Creole women are lunatics and all that? She seemed such a poor ghost. I thought I'd try to write her a life.
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My God, this is a funny way to live. My God, how did this happen?
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Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books.
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Sleep is so lovely, better than food or thinking or writing or anything.
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Sleep is so lovely, better than food or thinking or writing or anything.
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Imagine a life without drink or books or a friend to say "Onward" or a hairdo or a dentist.
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I had two longings & one was fighting the other. I wanted to be loved & I wanted to be always alone.
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I have decided on a place to eat in at midday, a place to eat in at night, a place to have my drink in after dinner. I have arranged my little life.
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EDITOR'S NOTE: Ms Rhys thanks you for your interest but requires no advice on social media and is also dead.
@MsJeanRhys
Thought you might like this 100 pg guide to social media for writers available free here:
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When I read Jane Eyre as a child, I thought, why should she think Creole women are lunatics and all that? She seemed such a poor ghost. I thought I'd try to write her a life.
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One knows that the whole damn thing's idiotic, futile, not even pleasant, but one goes on. One's caught in a sort of trap, I suppose.
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My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafés where they like me and cafés where they don't...
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I have always disliked and distrusted this village - but I did not know how beastly it could be.
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Twelve o'clock on a fine autumn day, and nothing to worry about. Some money to spend and nothing to worry about.
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I think my life very unenviable to outsiders. Yet I am envied and hated. Why?
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'Oh, shut up about being tired,' she would say. 'You were born tired. I'm tired too. We're all tired.'
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I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.
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All the worst mistakes have started because out of a weak futile conceited gutless desire to please I've done something I didn't want to do.
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I kept thinking, 'I'm all right. I still like going fast in a car and eating and drinking and hot baths. I'm quite all right.'
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The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
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'Oh, shut up about being tired,' she would say. 'You were born tired. I'm tired too. We're all tired.'
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I felt a certainty of joy, and terrific, terrific happiness, not only for me, but for everyone. I sat and I looked about and I thought: Why do I hate people? They're not hateful. My happiness for everyone lasted, lasted, perhaps three or four days.
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Oh, God, I'm only twenty and I'll have to go on living and living and living.
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It was one of those days when you can see the ghosts of all the other lovely days. You drink a bit and watch the ghosts.
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The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
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I'm going to try and relax, get my hair cut, buy a cheap dress, and generally pull myself together. Please wish me luck.
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You can get used to anything. You think: I'll never do that; and you find yourself doing it.
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I've thought about death a great deal. One day in the snow I felt so tired. I thought, Damn it, I'll sit down. I can't go on. I'm tired of living here in the snow and ice. So I sat down on the ground. But it was cold so I got up.
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At lunch she drank a half-bottle of Burgundy and felt very hopeful.
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She began to argue there was something unreal about most English people. 'They touch life with gloves on.'
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At lunch she drank a half-bottle of Burgundy and felt very hopeful.
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Oh God the stupidity, the ugliness, the darkness, the loneliness and the cruelty of this beastly little place.
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I am always being told that until my work ceases being "sordid and depressing" I haven't much chance of selling.
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A room is a place where you hide from the wolves outside and that's all any room is.
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Her life had been a long succession of humiliations and mistakes and pains and ridiculous efforts. Everybody's life was like that.
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What one should do is write in an ordinary way and make the writing seem extraordinary. One should write, too, about what is ordinary, and see the extraordinary behind it.
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Oh God the stupidity, the ugliness, the darkness, the loneliness and the cruelty of this beastly little place.
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I've thought about death a great deal. One day in the snow I felt so tired. I thought, Damn it, I'll sit down. I can't go on. I'm tired of living here in the snow and ice. So I sat down on the ground. But it was cold so I got up.
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My dream is to finish my book, get a face lift, and a bright red wig.
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When my first love affair came to an end I wrote this poem:
I didn't know
I didn't know
I didn't know
Then I settled down to be miserable.
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Planning it all out. Eating. A movie. Eating again. One drink. A long walk back to the hotel. Bed. Luminal. Sleep. Just sleep - no dreams.
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Writers have a tough time and nobody likes them either! Till they are dead. Then they become quite respectable and useful.
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I like being alone. Not always of course, but one can't have everything.
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Oh, I found England bitterly cold. I used to lie in bed and shiver and shiver, wondering why I'd ever dreamt of wanting to see daffodils and snowflakes.
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What was London to me? It was a little room, smelling stuffy, with my stockings hanging to dry in front of a gas-fire.
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What do I care about anything when I can lie on the bed and pull the past over me like a blanket?
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I don't feel well. I don't feel up to it. My clothes are too shabby. Besides, I hate people. I'm afraid of people. I never used to be like this, but now I'm going dippy, I suppose.
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I came to London with high hopes, but all I got out of it was a broken heart and enough sneers to last me for the next thirty years.
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The extrovert, prancing around, dying for a bit of fun - that's the person you've got to be wary of.
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I'm a grotesque creature in this lovely day and age. So what?
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I found when I was a child that if I could put the hurt into words, it would go. It leaves a sort of melancholy behind and then it goes.
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A room is a place where you hide from the wolves outside and that's all any room is.
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Today I must be very careful, today I have left my armour at home.
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I am an inefficient member of Society, slow in the uptake, uncertain, slightly damaged in the fray, there's no denying it.
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I am of course awfully clever about everything. In theory. And too late.
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Venus is dead; Apollo is dead; even Jesus is dead. All that is left in the world is an enormous machine, made of white steel.
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I kept thinking, 'I'm all right. I still like going fast in a car and eating and drinking and hot baths. I'm quite all right.'
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I want a long, calm book about people with large incomes - a book like a flat green meadow and the sheep feeding in it.
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All the worst mistakes have started because out of a weak futile conceited gutless desire to please I've done something I didn't want to do.
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It's funny when you feel as if you don't want anything more in your life except to sleep, or else to lie without moving. That’s when you can hear time sliding past you, like water running.
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Don't worry. Let it go like water running past you, and be as serene as you can.
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Her life had been a long succession of humiliations and mistakes and pains and ridiculous efforts. Everybody's life was like that.
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It was horrible to hear this ruin of a woman voicing all her own moods, all her own thoughts. Horrible.
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It's an English summer now, so cool, so grey. Yet I think of my revenge and hurricanes.
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At lunch she drank a half-bottle of Burgundy and felt very hopeful.
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There is no control over memory. Quite soon you find yourself being vague about an event which seemed so important at the time that you thought you'd never forget it.
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I will write again when things are better but write to me about cats and books - Please.
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EDITOR'S NOTE: Ms Rhys's masterpiece Wide Sargasso Sea was published 50 years ago this month. Here is the first edition dust jacket in full.
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Love was a terrible thing. You poisoned it and stabbed at it and knocked it down into the mud and it got up and staggered on, bleeding and muddy and awful. Like - like Rasputin.
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I had two longings & one was fighting the other. I wanted to be loved & I wanted to be always alone.
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