It was the darkness that got you. It was heavy darkness, greasy and compelling. It made walls round you, and shut you in that you felt you could not breathe. You wanted to beat at the darkness and shriek to be let out. And after a while you got used to it. Of course. And then you stopped believing that there was anything else anywhere.
- Jean Rhys (from After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie)
She could give herself up to the written word as naturally as a good dancer to music or a fine swimmer to water. But after finishing the last sentence she was left with a feeling at once hollow and uncomfortably full. Exactly like indigestion.
from Jean Rhys’ story “The Insect World” in the Collected Stories.
If I could put it into words it might go, she was thinking. Sometimes you can put it into words -almost- and so get rid of it -almost. Sometimes you can tell yourself I’ll admit I was afraid today. I was afraid of the sleek smooth faces, the rat faces, the way they laughed in the cinema. I’m afraid of escalators and dolls’ eyes. But there aren’t any words for this fear.
from Jean Rhys’ story “The Sound of the River”
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