THE LETTERS OF JEAN RHYS

This "purposely and unavoidably selective" gathering of letters begins in 1931—when Rhys was divorced, 40, successfully published (After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie), long past her deep-scarring tragedies (traumatic first love affair, death of an infant son), and already "the restless spirit so often near despair" of Wyndham's introduction. Over the next 35 years she married twice more, saw both husbands die (one suddenly, one very slowly). She maintained a warm yet oddly distant relationship with her daughter Maryvonne. She moved from one unsatisfactory house or flat to another—forgotten by the literary world, increasingly isolated, always beleaguered by cold, rain, and stuffy/nosy neighbors. And, above all, she struggled with her writing: two more books in the 1930s. . . but only a few stories thereafter until Wide Sargasso Sea in 1966. For the most part, then, these letters—nearly all of them to Maryvonne, literary friend Peggy Kirkaldy, actress Selma Vaz Dias (who adapted much Rhys material for radio), and editor Wyndham—are glum, even bitter, with flickers of creative enthusiasm and wry pluck. Money problems and writer's block are a frequent, frustrating combination: "What is to be done? If I could earn some shekels I'd fly from damp and bloody Beckenham and finish my book. Oh God if I could finish it before I peg out or really turn into some fungus or other!" Husband #3 Max, convicted of fraud in 1950, is a vague, vexing presence. ("He's potty. I look potty, he is potty.") Household woes—including a long consideration of roaches—are shared. . . while the passing decades increase Rhys' bitterness about her failure to publish: "I will produce goods in 1958 if it's the last thing I do"; or (in 1961) "I've been seeing a lot of the collective face that killed a thousand thoughts lately, and sometimes there is blue murder in my wicked heart." And the collection ends in 1966, with the publication-at-last of Sargasso and the death (after years of illness) of Max. Despite an occasional reference to "drink," then, this is not the aged, alcoholic wreck of David Plante's Difficult Women; nor is there much of "the slant-eyed siren" whom Wyndham fondly recalls. Still, while casual Rhys fans will find this collection disappointingly monotonic (and surprisingly domestic), specialists will welcome the informal record here (with fine editorial annotation) of Rhys' anguished writing process—especially the long, frustrating evolution of Wide Sargasso Sea.