The book initially sold poorly—critics thought it well written, but too depressing—and after its publication Rhys spent a decade living in obscurity. Twist their gonna get you laid tonight pricey necks off Sophia is Red Lobster, if you look at price tags or think that people have price tags? Why am vying for the attention of this man I loathe? Her despair, many say is best seen in her last act; that of taking the neighbor, supposedly willingly, though she has been disgusted by him throughout the rest of the novel. I ran up a debt with the bank. Escape, exits, hiding, dead ends. Are there different categories of heroism - a heroism of the mind and a heroism of the body, for example? Even in the works of some of my favourite, dark and most misanthropic of writers, there is normally some purpose, something disturbing that jars us out of our complacency and allows us to see the human condition in a new light, but unfortunately, that is not the case here.
I won't go into what happened to her, as this is for the reader to slowly find out. I wish that Sophia didn't disappear into this normal herself in her effort to be like them. Crush it with the heel of one's boot. Mind you, I'm not talking about the struggle when you are strong and a good swimmer and there are willing and eager friends on the bank waiting to pull you out at the first sign of distress. But all in good time. Her hotel room is dark. But how would I know? But there is no self-pity in Sasha Jensen, but a terrible ache, a yearning inside.
It seems appropriate to end with the poem for which this novel is named. She does not seem to think that she can change anything about who she is, or at least who she has become, so she does not try. She invited me to meet her friends, and I did, only I turned up with a bottle of whisky, of which I had already drunk three quarters. Now whiskey, rum, gin, sherry, vermouth, wine. Blank is no different than Rene, or the old man who continually haunts her from the hotel room next door. Or I succeed in flashes only too damned well. Liked by I just finished reading this rereading, technically, but it was more than ten years ago, and I hardly remembered any details, only the mood, and not as much of it as I thought last night.
No one in it is likeable. I listen to her silence. I must be solid as an oak. Tomorrow, she resolves, she will dye her hair blonde. The most depressing of all is that none of this will happen. They do seem to go to cafes just for a break in the conversations, in Good Morning, Midnight.
I light a cigarette and drink the coffee slowly. On 5th November this appeared in the New Statesman : Jean Rhys Mrs Tilden Smith author of Voyage in the Dark, After Leaving Mr Mackenzie, Good Morning Midnight, etc. I had done London in. I borrowed money from my brother. I can look—can't I— When the East is Red? Today I must be careful, today I have left my armour at home.
Your hand, Sasha, give me your hand!! For a while this was my favourite pastime. In the middle of the night you wake up. Why would I want to search for myself in books like this? I know that which Sophia doesn't know and that's if you can't be yourself you may as well not do anything at all. I'm glad I read this first, and didn't start with Wide Sargasso Sea, undoubtedly her most well-known and possibly most popular novel. One day in the snow I felt so tired. Why can't I kiss that girl who I admire so intensely? She accepts the fact that he is there, as she has always accepted the fact that men are in her life to use her, and she gives in.
The middle-aged Sasha attempts to brighten her mood by buying a new dress, a new hat, and dying her hair ash blond. She was, at last, nose-to-nose with the unpleasant reality of what she had been dabbling in. Remanded for another week to Holloway Prison — the big house. Of course, it is like that. Watch her think over things beyond their worth. I broke up with my girlfriend.
The Hills—have a way—then— That puts the Heart—abroad— You—are not so fair—Midnight— I chose—Day— But—please take a little Girl— He turned away! Also, it's a roman a clef and set in 1937, when Rhys was 47. Please, please, monsieur et madame, mister, missis and miss. We're introduced to narrator, Sasha Jensen, as she prepares to leave her claustrophobically secure room to find a place to have her nightly drink. Who in their right mind would have wanted that? It reminded me of reading Yukio Mishima's Confessions of a Mask I love him but this one is by no means a favorite. And besides, those girls aren't fit for anything else, not if they expect to eat.
Good Morning—Midnight— I'm coming Home— Day—got tired of Me— How could I—of Him? Yeah, I see what you're saying. I needed to hide, so I escaped and I went home and I hid. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. It is the white dressing-gown. I put the light on. That was the point and that was what I was geared up for. She thought it was quixotic, bohemian.