Wide Sargasso Sea Quotes

You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world...

There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.

Blot out the moon, Pull down the stars. Love in the dark, for we're for the dark So soon, so soon.

And what does anyone know about traitors, or why Judas did what he did?

If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best. But first, first I will destroy your hatred. Now. My hate is colder, stronger, and you’ll have no hate to warm yourself. You will have nothing.

Have all beautiful things sad destinies?

I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.

There is always another side, always.

Justice," she said. " I've heard that word. It's a cold world. I tried it out," she said, still speaking in that low voice. "I wrote it down. I wrote it down several times and always it looked like a damn cold lie to me. There is no justice.

If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic.

I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what's called loving as I was - more lost and drowned afterwards.

As soon as I turned the key I saw it hanging, the color of fire and sunset. the colour of flamboyant flowers. ‘If you are buried under a flamboyant tree, ‘ I said, ‘your soul is lifted up when it flowers. Everyone wants that.’ She shook her head but she did not move or touch me.

I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.

Your red dress,’ she said, and laughed. But I looked at the dress on the floor and it was as if the fire had spread across the room. It was beautiful and it reminded me of something I must do. I will remember I thought. I will remember quite soon now.

I have been too unhappy, I thought, it cannot last, being so unhappy, it would kill you

I thought if I told no one it might not be true.

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

She’ll have no lover, for I don’t want her and she’ll see no other.

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).

What I see is nothing - I want what it hides - that is not nothing.

It is the tragedy of a distinguished mind and a generous nature that have gone unappreciated in a conventional, unimaginative world. A victim of men's incomprehension of women, a symptom of women's mistrust of men.

If she says goodbye perhaps adieu. Adieu - like those old time songs she sang. Always adieu (and all songs say it). If she too says it, or weeps, I'll take her in my arms, my lunatic. She's mad but mine, mine. What will I care for gods or devils or for Fate itself. If she smiles or weeps or both. For me.

I took the red dress down and put it against myself. 'Does it make me look intemperate and unchaste?' I said.

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

When I was out on the battlements it was cool and I could hardly hear them. I sat there quietly. I don't know how long I sat. Then I turned round and saw the sky. It was red and all my life was in it.

When you insult or injure the unfortunate or the unhappy, you insult Christ Himself and He will not forget, for they are His chosen ones.

The house was burning, the yellow-red sky was like the sunset...Nothing would be left, the golden ferns and the silver ferns, the orchids, the ginger lilies and the roses...When they had finished, there would be nothing left but blackened walls and the mounting stone. That was always left. That could not be stolen or burned.

It was a beautiful place - wild, untouched, above all untouched, with an alien, disturbing, secret loveliness. And it kept its secret. I'd fins myself thinking, 'What I see is nothing - I want what it hides - that is not nothing'.

I must remember about chandeliers and dancing, about swans and roses and snow.

Lies are never forgotten, they go on and they grow

If this is a sad story, don’t tell it to me tonight.’‘It is not sad,’ she said. ‘Only some things happen and are there for always even though you forget why or when.

Rain, forever raining. Drown me in sleep. And soon.

Unhappily children do hurt flies

There is no looking-glass here and I don't know what I am like now. I remember watching myself brush my hair and how my eyes looked back at me. The girl I saw was myself yet not quite myself. Long ago when I was a child and very lonely I tried to kiss her. But the glass was between us - hard, cold and misted over with my breath. Now they have taken everything away. What am I doing in this place and who am I?

Why did you make me want to live? Why did you do that to me?

Vain, silly creature. Made for loving? Yes, but she'll have no lover, for I don't want her and she'll see no other.

But they left their treasure, gold and more gold. Some of it is found- but the finders never tell, because you see they’d only get one-third then: that’s the law of treasure. They want it all, so never speak of it.

Why did you make me want to live? Why did you do that to me?’ ‘Because I wished it. Isn't that enough?’ ‘Yes, it is enough. But if one day you didn't wish it. What should I do then? Suppose you took this happiness away when I wasn't looking …’ ‘And lose my own? Who’d be so foolish?’ ‘I am not used to happiness,’ she said. ‘It makes me afraid.’ ‘Never be afraid. Or if you are tell no one.’ ‘I understand. But trying does not help me.’ ‘What would?’ She did not answer that, then one night whispered, ‘If I could die. Now, when I am happy. Would you do that? You wouldn't have to kill me. Say die and I will die. You don’t believe me? Then try, try, say die and watch me die.

Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

Nothing left but hopelessness.' Say die and I will die. Say die and watch me die.

As for her, I'd forgotten her for the moment. So I shall never understand why, suddenly, bewilderingly, I was certain that everything I had imagined to be truth was false. False. Only the magic and the dream are true—all the rest's a lie. Let it go. Here is the secret. Here.

Like Wide Sargasso Sea and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, fanfiction asserts the rights of storytellers to take possession of characters and settings from other people’s narratives and tell their own tales about them—to expand and build upon the original, and, when they deem it necessary, to tweak it and optimize it for their own purposes.

Very soon she'll join all the others who know the secret and will not tell it. Or cannot. Or try and fail because they do not know enough. They can be recognized. White faces, dazed eyes, aimless gestures, high-pitched laughter. The way they walk and talk and scream or try to kill (themselves or you) if you laugh back at them. Yes, they've got to be watched. For the time comes when they try to kill, then disappear. But others are waiting to take their places, it's a long, long line. She's one of them. I too can wait—for the day when she is only a memory to be avoided, locked away, and like all memories a legend. Or a lie ...

I prayed, but the words fell to the ground meaning nothing.

Our garden was large and beautiful as that garden in the Bible – the tree of life grew there. But it had gone wild. The paths were overgrown and a smell of dead flowers mixed with the fresh living smell. Underneath the tree ferns, tall as forest tree ferns, the light was green.

But you don't know the world,' I teased her. 'No, only here, and Jamaica of course, Coulibri, Spanish Town. I don't know the other islands at all. Is the world more beautiful, then?' And how to answer that? 'It's different,' I said.

I can remember every second of that morning, if I shut my eyes I can see the deep blue colour of the sky and the mango leaves, the pink and red hibiscus, the yellow handkerchief she wore around her head, tied in the Martinique fashion with the sharp points in front, but now I see everything still, fixed for ever like the colours in a stained-glass window. Only the clouds move. It was wrapped in a leaf, what she had given me, and I felt it cool and smooth against my skin.

When man don't love you, more you try, more he hate you, man like that. If you love them they treat you bad, if you don't love them they after you night and day bothering your soul case out. I hear about you and your husband,' she said. 'But I cannot go. He is my husband after all.' She spat over her shoulder. 'All women, all colours, nothing but fools. Three children I have. One living in this world, each one a different father, but no husband, I thank my God. I keep my money. I don't give it to no worthless man.' 'When must I go, where must I go?' 'But look me trouble, a rich white girl like you and more foolish than the rest. A man don't treat you good, pick up your skirt and walk out. Do it and he come after you.

Just you touch me once. You’ll soon see if I’m a damn coward like you are.

The devil prince of this world, but this world don’t last so long for mortal man.

Better not I tell you. You want to know what I do? I say doudou, if you have trouble you are right to come to me. And I kiss her. It's when I kiss her she cry - not before.

Your husband certainly love money,' she said. 'That is no lie Money have pretty face for everybody, but for that man money pretty like pretty self, he can't see nothing else.

I don't say I don't believe, I say I don't know, I know what I see with my eyes and I never see it.

I said I was always happy in the morning, not always in the afternoon and never after sunset, for after sunset the house was haunted, some places are.

So I often wonder who I am and where is my country and where do I belong and why I was ever born at all.

There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about. —Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea

She said she loved this place. This is the last she'll see of it. I'll watch for one tear, one human tear. Not that blank hating moonstruck face. I'll listen.... If she says good-bye perhaps adieu. Adieu -- like those old-time songs she sang. Always adieu (and all the songs say it). If she too says it, or weeps, I'll take her in my arms, my lunatic. She's mad but mine, mine. What will I care for gods or devils or for Fate itself. If she smiles or weeps or both. For me. Antoinetta -- I can be gentle too. Hide your face. Hide yourself but in my arms. You'll soon see how gentle. My lunatic. My mad girl.

The prayer ended, 'May Almighty God defend us.' And God who is indeed mysterious, who had made no sign when they burned Pierre as he slept - not a clap of thunder, not a flash of lighting - mysterious God heard Mr Mason at once and answered him. The yells stopped.

I took another road, past the old sugar works and the water wheel that had not turned for years. I went to parts of Coulibri that I had not seen, where there was no road, no path, no track. And if the razor grass cut my legs and arms I would think 'It's better than people.' Black ants or red ones, tall nests swarming with white ants, rain that soaked me to the skin - once I saw a snake. All better than people. Better, better, better than people.

Nobody's hidden your dress", she said. "It's hanging in the press". She lookked at me and said, "I don't believe you know how long you've been here, you poor creature". "On the contrary", I said, "only I know how long Ihave been here. Nights and days, and days and nights, hundreds of them slipping through my fingers. But that does not matter. Time has no meaning. But something you can touch and hold like my red dress, that has meaning. Where is it?

I hope that gay gentleman will be safe.

I had two longings and one was fighting the other. I wanted to be loved and I wanted to be always alone

I felt very little tenderness for her, she was a stranger to me, a stranger who did not think or feel as I did.

Is it true,’ she said, ‘that England is like a dream? Because one of my friends who married an Englishman wrote and told me so. She said this place London is like a cold dark dream sometimes. I want to wake up.’ ‘Well’, I answered annoyed, ‘that is precisely how your beautiful island seems to me, quite unreal and like a dream.’ ‘But how can rivers and mountains and the sea be unreal?’ ‘And how can millions of people, their houses and their streets be unreal?’ ‘More easily,’ she said, ‘much more easily. Yes a big city must be like a dream.

Once,' she said, 'I used to sleep with a piece of wood by my side so that I could defend myself if I were attacked. That's how afraid I was.' 'Afraid of what?' She shook her head. 'Of nothing, of everything.

Our garden was large and beautiful as that garden in the Bible - the tree of life grew there. But it had gone wild. The paths were overgrown and a smell of dead flowers mixed with the fresh living smell. Underneath the tree ferns, tall as forest tree ferns, the light was green. Orchids flourished out of reach or for some reason not to be touched. One was snaky looking, another like an octopus with long thing brown tentacles bare of leaves hanging from a twisted root. Twice a year the octopus orchid flowered - then not an inch of tentacle showed. It was a bell-shaped mass of white, mauve, deep purples, wonderful to see. The sent was very sweet and strong. I never went near it.

The house was burning, the yellow-red sky was like sunset and I knew that I would never see Coulibri again. Nothing would be left, the golden ferns and the silver ferns, the orchids, the ginger lilies and the roses, the rocking-chairs and the blue sofa, the jasmine and the honeysuckle, and the picture of the Miller's Daughter. When they had finished, there would be nothing left but blackened walls and the mounting stone. That was always left. That could not be stolen or burned.

Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine Underland, by Robert Macfarlane The Undocumented Americans, by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio Deacon King Kong, by James McBride The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth Every Man Dies Alone, by Hans Fallada

My father old Cosway, with his white marble tablet in the English church at Spanish Town for all to see. It have a crest on it and a motto in Latin and words in big black letters. I never know such lies. [...] "Pious", they write up. "Beloved by all." Not a word about the people he buy and sell like cattle. "Merciful to the weak", they write up. Mercy! [...] I can still see that tablet before my eye because I go to look at it often. I know by heart all the lies they tell - no one stand up and say, Why you write lies in the church?

Totally Biased List of Tookie’s Favorite Books Ghost-Managing Book List The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead Asleep, by Banana Yoshimoto The Hatak Witches, by Devon A. Mihesuah Beloved, by Toni Morrison The Through, by A. Rafael Johnson Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders Savage Conversations, by LeAnne Howe The Regeneration Trilogy, by Pat Barker Exit Ghost, by Philip Roth Songs for Discharming, by Denise Sweet Hiroshima Bugi: Atomu 57, by Gerald Vizenor Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

She was silence itself.

Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabal Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee

The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai These are books that knock you sideways in around 200 pages. Between

The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai Sailboat Table (table by Quint Hankle) The Voyage of the Narwhal, by Andrea Barrett Complete Stories, by Clarice Lispector Boy Kings of Texas, by Domingo Martinez The Marrow Thieves, by Cherie Dimaline A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James There There, by Tommy Orange Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine

I woke the next morning knowing that nothing would be the same. It would change and go on changing.

Watching the red and yellow flowers in the sun thinking of nothing, it was as if a door opened and I was somewhere else, something else. Not myself any longer. I knew the time of day when though it is hot and blue and there are no clouds, the sky can have a very black look.

Ghost-Managing Book List The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead Asleep, by Banana Yoshimoto The Hatak Witches, by Devon A. Mihesuah Beloved, by Toni Morrison The Through, by A. Rafael Johnson Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders Savage Conversations, by LeAnne Howe The Regeneration Trilogy, by Pat Barker Exit Ghost, by Philip Roth Songs for Discharming, by Denise Sweet Hiroshima Bugi: Atomu 57, by Gerald Vizenor Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabal Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

Desiderio, Odio, Vita, Morte erano terribilmente vicini nell'ombra

When trouble comes, close ranks

Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabal Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys

Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai Sailboat

Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

We were getting ready to close the store for what we thought might be as long as two months now. I was looking over the day’s reports when Dissatisfaction came into the building. His fingers roamed along the spines of the books, sometimes tracing one, pulling it out to read the first line. Since he’d read The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald, he and I had compiled a list of short perfect novels. Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai These are books that knock you sideways in around 200 pages. Between the covers there exists a complete world. The story is unforgettably peopled and nothing is extraneous. Reading one of these books takes only an hour or two but leaves a lifetime imprint. Still, to Dissatisfaction, they are but exquisite appetizers. Now he needs a meal. I knew that he’d read Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels and was lukewarm. He called them soap opera books, which I thought was the point. He did like The Days of Abandonment, which was perhaps a short perfect novel. ‘She walked the edge with that one,’ he said. He liked Knausgaard (not a short perfect). He called the writing better than Novocain. My Struggle had numbed his mind but every so often, he told me, he’d felt the crystal pain of the drill. In desperation, I handed over The Known World. He thrust it back in outrage, his soft voice a hiss, Are you kidding me? I have read this one six times. Now what do you have? In the end, I placated him with Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger, the latest Amitav Ghosh, NW by Zadie Smith, and Jane Gardam’s Old Filth books in a sturdy Europa boxed set, which he hungrily seized. He’d run his prey to earth and now he would feast. Watching him closely after he paid for the books and took the package into his hands, I saw his pupils dilate the way a diner’s do when food is brought to the table.

Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabal Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabal Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai These are books that knock you sideways in around 200 pages.

Say die and I will die. Say die and watch me die.

To become so possessed by a character you begin to play the part. A sort of Method Acting that is also a conjuring up. Jean Rhys POSSESSED by Bertha, who she first calls Antoinette Cosway. In the novel Rhys unravels what led to her being renamed, being destroyed, going mad, madness in her novel as the death of self.

When man don't love you, more you try, more he hate you, man like that. If you love them they treat you bad, if you don't love them they after you night and day bothering your soul case out.

—Está muy disgustado porque nunca le das un beso. La contradije: —Pues no pone cara de disgustado. —Es un grave error juzgar por la cara, en uno u otro sentido.

Vi a Antoinette tendida en cama, absolutamente inmóvil. Como una muñeca. Incluso cuando me amenazó con la botella, había en ella cierta calidad de marioneta.

As she talked she was working at a patchwork counterpane. The diamond-shaped pieces of silk melted one into the other, red, blue, purple, green, yellow, all one shimmering color. Hours and hours she had spent on it and it was nearly finished. Would I be lonely? she asked and I said 'No', looking at the colors. Hours and hours and hours I thought.

It was very late when I poured out two glasses and told her to drink to our happiness, to our love and the day without end which would be tomorrow. I was young then. A short youth mine was.

Bertha is not my name. You are trying to make me into someone else, calling me by another name. I know, that’s obeah too.

I drank it and I said, ‘It isn’t like it seems to be.’ - ‘I know. It never is,’ he said

I thought I'd try to write her a life

Det er derfor Heart of Darkness står ved siden af Le Regard du Roi, og Wide Sargasso Sea står lige ovenover Jane Eyre. De to sidstnævnte stod før i tiden ved siden af hinanden, men så besluttede jeg, at det var bedre at rette op på den gamle koloniale ubalance ved at give Rhys overtaget – altså den øverste hylde

Ero spossato. Tutte le folli passioni contrastanti si erano esaurite e mi avevano lasciato esausto e vuoto. Sano di mente. Ero stanco di quella gente. Detestavo tutto di loro, il riso e le lacrime, l’adulazione e l’invidia, la vanità e gli inganni. E odiavo quel posto. Odiavo le montagne e le colline, i fiumi e la pioggia. Odiavo i suoi tramonti qualunque colore avessero, odiavo la sua bellezza e la sua magia e il segreto che non avrei mai conosciuto. Odiavo la sua indifferenza e la crudeltà che faceva parte del suo incanto. Soprattutto odiavo lei. Perché lei apparteneva a quella magia e a quell’incanto. Mi aveva lasciato assetato e tutta la mia vita sarebbe stata sete e desiderio di ciò che avevo perduto prima ancora di trovarlo.

Ma il loro tesoro era rimasto, oro e non soltanto oro. Qualcosa si trova ancora — ma chi la trova non lo dice mai perché, vedi, gliene resterebbe solo un terzo: questa è la legge per chi trova i tesori. Loro vogliono tutto, così non ne parlano. A volte oggetti preziosi, a volte gioielli. È incredibile tutto quello che la gente trova e vende in gran segreto a qualche individuo guardingo che pesa e misura, esita, fa domande che restano senza risposta, poi dà in cambio del denaro. [...]In tutte le isole, da nessuna parte, non si sa da dove. Perché è meglio non parlare di tesoro. Meglio non dirlo. Sì, meglio non dirlo. Non ti dirò che a malapena ascoltavo i tuoi racconti. Desideravo la notte e il buio e l’ora in cui si aprono i fiori lunari. Cancella la luna, tira giù le stelle, Amami al buio, perché il buio è il nostro destino presto, presto. Come gli spavaldi pirati, approfittiamo al massimo di ciò che abbiamo, nel migliore e nel peggiore dei modi. Non dare un terzo ma tutto. Tutto… tutto… tutto. Non tenerti nulla… No, avrei detto… sapevo quello che avrei detto. — Ho fatto un errore terribile. Perdonami. Lo dissi, guardandola, vedendo l’odio nei suoi occhi — e sentendo il mio odio che sprizzava incontro al suo. Di nuovo quel cambiamento da vertigine, l’ossessione del ricordo, lo sconvolgente ritorno all’odio. Mi hanno comprato col tuo sporco denaro, me, hanno comprato. Tu li hai aiutati. Mi hai ingannato, tradito, e farai ancora peggio, se ne avrai la possibilità. [...] … Se ero destinato all’inferno, che sia l’inferno. Basta coi falsi paradisi. Basta con la maledetta magia. Tu mi odi e io ti odio. Vedremo chi sa odiare meglio. Ma prima — prima voglio distruggere il tuo odio. Il mio odio è più freddo, più forte, e tu non avrai più nessun odio che ti scaldi. Tu non avrai più nulla. E lo feci. Vidi l’odio scomparire dai suoi occhi. Lo costrinsi a scomparire. E con l’odio scomparve la sua bellezza. Lei non fu più che un fantasma. Un fantasma nella luce grigia del giorno. Non rimase che la disperazione. Dimmi muori e morirò. Dimmi muori e guardami morire.

Adesso ricordo che non mi ha riconosciuta. Mi ha guardata, poi ha girato gli occhi per la stanza, a destra e a sinistra, perché non vedeva quello che si aspettava. Mi ha guardata e mi ha parlato come se fossi un’estranea. Che cosa fate, quando vi succede una cosa del genere? Perché ridete di me? Avete nascosto anche il mio vestito rosso? Se avessi avuto quello mi avrebbe riconosciuta. — E chi volete che ve l’abbia nascosto, il vostro vestito? — disse lei. — È appeso nell’armadio. Mi guardò e disse: — Forse non sapete nemmeno da quanto tempo siete qui, povera donna. — Al contrario, — dissi — io so soltanto questo, da quanto tempo sono qui. Giorni e notti, notti e giorni, me ne sono scivolati tra le dita a centinaia. Ma questo non importa. Il tempo non significa niente. Ma ciò che si può toccare e tenere in mano come il mio vestito rosso, questo sì che ha un significato. Dov’è? Accennò col capo verso l’armadio, e gli angoli della bocca le si piegarono all’ingiù Non appena girai la chiave lo vidi appeso, color di fuoco e di tramonto. Il colore dei fiori fiammeggianti. — Se ti seppelliscono sotto un albero fiammeggiante, — dissi — quando fiorisce ti senti l’anima sollevata. Tutti desiderano questo. Lei crollò il capo, ma non si mosse, non mi toccò. Il profumo che si esalava dal vestito a tutta prima era molto tenue, poi si fece più intenso. Odore di vetiver e di frangipane, di cannella e di polvere e di cedri quando fioriscono. L’odore del sole e l’odore della pioggia.

— Perché mi hai dato questo desiderio di vivere? Perché mi hai fatto questo?— Perché lo desideravo. Non basta?— Sì, basta. Ma se un giorno tu non lo desiderassi più? Che farei, allora? Pensa se tu mi portassi via questa felicità mentre sono distratta…— Per perdere la mia? Chi sarebbe tanto sciocco? — Non sono abituata alla felicità — disse. — Mi fa paura. — Non avere mai paura. E se hai paura non dirlo a nessuno. — Lo capisco. Ma provarci non mi aiuta. — Che cosa ti aiuterebbe? — Non rispondeva mai a questa domanda; poi una notte sussurrò: — Se potessi morirei adesso, mentre sono felice. Lo faresti? Non dovresti uccidermi. Dimmi di morire e io morirò. Non mi credi? Allora prova, prova, dimmi muori e guardami morire. — Muori allora! Muori! — La guardai morire molte volte. Nel mio modo, non nel suo. In pieno sole, nell’ombra, al chiaro della luna, a lume di candela. Nei lunghi pomeriggi quando la casa era vuota. C’era soltanto il sole a tenerci compagnia. Lo chiudevamo fuori. E perché no? Ben presto lei fu presa quanto me da quel che si chiama amare — in seguito, più perduta e vinta di me.