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Good Morning, Midnight: Jean Rhys (Penguin Modern Classics)

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A disaffected, thirty-something woman, after being abandoned by her husband, goes to Paris and almost sleeps with a gigolo.

Registered office: WSM Services Limited, Connect House, 133-137 Alexandra Road, Wimbledon, LONDON SW19 7JY. The unbearable weight of being perceived as worthless by a society that devalues her transforms Sasha into a cold-brewed misanthrope—hating any gaze, averse to humanity's reflection that renders her as nothing more than a vessel for disregard. The dreams of youth and the aspirations for the future, once vibrant, now echo as distant, unattainable whispers in Sasha's attempt to relive them—a futile pursuit, as they can never be resurrected. If you trip and fall into bed (it was already there) and cry and have it all out and then get up again and feel all the eyes staring on you because you MUST look like you've fallen apart and it's much worse that this is the normal to get back to and everyone must know that it's not the end of the world and your normal at all (how awful it's not even the end) is not a flash in anyone's fire. I’m not convinced Henry Miller is a good role model for the thousands of middle-class boys who read him in late adolescence and are given this incredibly seductive picture of life as an endless bachelor party, with wall-to-wall pussy and intermissions of boozy philosophical chatter.The Publisher Says: In 1930s Paris, where one cheap hotel room is very like another, a young woman is teaching herself indifference.

People talk about the happy life, but that’s the happy life when you don’t care any longer if you live or die. In 1930s Paris, where one cheap hotel room is very like another, a young woman is teaching herself indifference. Because of this tendency to cry, she’s well acquainted with the many bar bathrooms of Paris, where she escapes to weep while staring at herself in the mirror. Three hours to choose a hat; every morning an hour and a half trying to make myself look like everybody else. She suspects that he’s a sex worker who has mistaken her for a rich and gullible woman—someone he could entice into giving him lots of money.

Sasha has to make amends with the fact it is over, and that the heart was given in the wrong place, to the wrong person.

Hotjar sets this cookie to know whether a user is included in the data sampling defined by the site's daily session limit. She says she’ll scream for help, but they both know she won’t because she doesn’t want anyone in her hotel to know she has a man in her room. Rhys has given us the best kind of unreliable narrator here, one who is unreliable even to herself, and though there's not much in terms of scene work to latch onto, the novel is very fast. I've had enough of these streets that sweat a cold, yellow slime, of hostile people, of crying myself to sleep every night, enough of thinking, enough of remembering. My feeling is you could argue all of these points depending on your analytic sensibilities and also you view of women and, obviously, feminism in particular.Slowly falling to pieces, the aftermath of abandonment is an impoverished existence where there is nothing at all. Floating from one fragment to the other, with nothing to stay on, she sheds them all off only to reveal that dry crust of loneliness. Sasha's relationship with him is particularly ambivalent, since while she empathises with him as a victim, she also fears his sexuality and machismo.

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