Human Beings Are Struggling, And So They

Not That She Objected To Solitude. Quite The Contrary. She Had Books, Thank Heaven, Quantities Of Books. All Sorts Of Books.

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).

Yes, I Am Sad, Sad As A Circus-lioness, Sad As An Eagle Without Wings, Sad As A Violin With Only One String And That One Broken, Sad As A Woman Who Is Growing Old. Sad, Sad, Sad.

Now I No Longer Wish To Be Loved, Beautiful, Happy Or Successful. I Want One Thing And One Thing Only - To Be Left Alone.

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.