jean rhys forever - by rose lyddon
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on my favourite writer and alcoholism and being useless
As I write, I’m drinking a virgin mojito at my hotel bar in Fort-de-France, Martinique. Tomorrow I’ll get a ferry to Dominica where a man (the diplomat, mentioned in a previous post, whom I met in Mexico) will be waiting for me at the port in Roseau. It came after an idle suggestion I made about going to Dominica on account of its being where Jean Rhys grew up; the next day, he had booked a flight from London. It feels unbelievable, ridiculous, like something that happens in films or old novels where people were more impulsive and romantic and less jaded about love. People don’t do things…
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