Jean Rhys

The last of the four novels Jean Rhys wrote in interwar Paris, Good Morning, Midnight is the culmination of a searing literary arc, which established Rhys as an astute observer of human tragedy. Her everywoman heroine, Sasha, must confront the loves-- and losses-- of her past in this mesmerizing and formally daring psychological portrait.

Good Morning, Midnight

Stas

l am empty of everything. I am empty of everything but the thin, frail trunks of the trees and the thin, frail ghosts in my room. ‘La tristesse vaut mieux que la joie.’

Sasha has returned to Paris, the city of both her happiest and most desperate moments. Her past lies in wait for her in cafes and bars, blurring all distinctions between nightmare and reality. When she is picked up by a young man, she begins to feel that she is still capable of desires.

Sarah Christine Gill

The curtains are thin, and when they are drawn the light comes through softly. There are flowers on the window-sill and I can see their shadows on the curtains. The child downstairs is screaming. 

There is a wind, and the flowers on the window-sill, and their shadows on the curtains, are waving. Like swans dipping their beaks in water. Like the incalculable raising its head, use- lessly and wildly, for one moment before it sinks down, into the darkness. Like skulls on long, thin necks. Plunging wildly when the wind blows, to the end of the curtain, which is their noth- ingness. Distorting themselves as they plunge. 

The musty smell, the bugs, the loneliness, this room, which is part of the street outside - this is all I want from life. 

Next morning we eat an enormous breakfast of sausages, cold meat, cheese and milk. We walk about Amsterdam. We look at pictures in the Rijksmuseum. "Would you like to see your double? Enno says. 

I am tuned up to top pitch. Everything is smooth, soft and tender. Making love. The colours of the pictures. The sunsets. Tender, north colours when the sun sets - pink, mauve, green and blue. And the wind very fresh and cold and the lights in the canals like gold caterpillars and the seagulls swooping over the water. Tuned up to top pitch. Everything tender and melancholy - as life is sometimes, just for one moment. 

And did I mind? Not at all, not at all. If you think I minded, then youve never lived like that, plunged in a dream, when all the faces are masks and only the trees are alive and you can almost see the strings that are pulling the puppets. Close-up of human nature- isn't it worth something? 

Well, we go into the Café Buffalo. Will I have a little apéritif? I certainly will. Two Pernods arrive. 

I start thinking about food. Choucroute, for instance - you ought to be able to get choucroute garnie here. Lovely sausage, lovely potato, lovely, lovely cabbage... My mouth starts watering violently. I drink half the glass of Pernod in order to swallow convenablement. And then I feel like a goddess. It might have made me sick, but it has done the other thing 

akshita

"West African masks?" "Yes, straight from the Congo...I made them."

He takes it down and shows it to me. The close set eye holes stare into mine. I know that face very well; I've seen lots like it, complete with legs and body.

As soon as you have reached this heaven of indifference, you are pulled out of it. From your heaven you have to go back to hell. 

When you are dead to the world, the world often rescues you, if only to make a figure of fun out of you.

If you're determined to get people on the cheap, you shouldn't be so surprised when they pitch you their own little story of misery sometimes.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

But never tell the truth about this business of rooms, otherwise it would bust the roof of everything and undermine the whole social system.

All rooms are the same. All rooms have four walls, a door, a window or two, a bed, a chair and perhaps a bidet. 

A room is a place where you hide from the wolves outside and that's all any room is. Why should I worry about changing my room?

Chris Dailey

Poetic and devastating novel about a drunk Englishwomen in Paris between the Wars. Told in almost a blur, the story moves from bar to hotel back to the bar, we follow her encounters with new and old friends along with antagonistic acquaintances. Substance abuse, cheap sex, the allure of Paris, deep loss and loneliness all play a role and wreak havoc on the protagonist. While highly intimate and tragic, it struggled to gain momentum and build narrative. Ultimately a fine piece of literature, though one the reader must work for.

to feel trapped in your own self, so who's gonna lift you up when it's been a battle of complexity and extremity within one soul. laying out a raw relatedness turns out making me feel more depressed. but the way she made it feel like as undulate as the memory waves, the writing style added to the frustration which made it easier to get lost in the emotion and harder to understand the circumstances that made the whole experience grounded to the deepest pit of loneliness. and its honesty made it feel safe in drowning, knowing that we're not alone feeling like that.

Nate

Why did no one tell me its too depressing to read

jess

A grim and bitter book, but beautifully written. Short but intense novel that totally captures the feeling of hitting rock bottom.

Too many things going on in the background, plus the timeline??

Jaycee

Marielle de Geest

Expert writing on the timeless phenomenon of getting dumped, drinking too much and dying your hair blonde.

Good Morning, Midnight

Reviews

Highlights