I Am Sad, Sad As A Circus-lioness.

Yes, I Am Sad, Sad As A Circus-lioness, Sad As An Eagle Without Wings, Sad As A Violin With Only One String And That One Broken, Sad As A Woman Who Is Growing Old. Sad, Sad, Sad.

I've Been So Ridiculous All My Life That A Little Bit More Or A Little Bit Less Hardly Matters Now.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

The Woman Had A Humble, Cringing Manner. Of Course, She Had Discovered That, Having Neither Money Nor Virtue, She Had Better Be Humble If She Knew What Was Good For Her.

I Have Arranged My Little Life.