It read me so well it's almost repulsive.

A dizzying back and forth between Parisian hotel rooms and bars— the desperation, the yearning, the loss of oneself. The Sun Also Rises and My Year of Rest and Relaxation come to mind.

Struggled with this. It's a rather breezy stream-of-consciousness inner monologue that clashes with description and dialogue. It was easy to read but often vague and confusing in terms of what was actually happening. I find this to be a common feature of many women writers. When they want to let you hear their thoughts, they seem to feel compelled to wrap it up in flowery language that keeps you at arm's length which slightly irritates me. A little too much navel gazing for my tastes. I liked her but she was just too self-indulgent. Is this really how women think or is it simply what they believe to be the most socially acceptable version? There are times when she almost crosses the line and tells us something real, something sincere, but then pulls back at the last minute and returns to gazing at the haunting shadows. I just find that stuff frustrating.

The plot is essentially a drunk middle-aged woman swanning about Paris and reminiscing about her youth when she was first in Paris with her ex husband. We then discover that she lost a baby and that he left her. She's now a lonely and lost alcoholic being pursued by various men and one gigolo in particular. She lives in a series of dingy hotel rooms and fights the insomnia while wandering from one café/bar to the next.

The inner monologue was fine when it was interrupting dialogue but felt a little jarring when it was interrupting description and narrative. That resulted in the general narrative being all over the place and I often wasn't sure if she was describing events currently taking place or events of the past. Nice and short though so it was a pleasing read.

If you like this kind of writing then you'll love this. For the most part, I'd probably recommend it.

this is a semi autobiographical account from rhys; as her alter ego sasha, a woman returning to Paris to try and recapture some joy in her life. this book doesn't just capture sadness or loneliness, it's just pure despair. she lives day by day in hotels, different cafes, meeting with different men. there is hardly a moment where she isn't trying to escape through drink. she finds herself lost between the past and present — which presents us with a pretty unique narrative flow.

this is a heavy book, suicidal ideation and alcoholism are present throughout. i don't think i was mentally or emotionally invested enough to fully analyze this book, but there is a lot of depth and perspective here. it's really impressive for a book so small (under 200 pages). i didn't really enjoy or dislike this book, but i can appreciate and respect the work, vulnerability, and melancholy rhys must've faced while writing this.

A completely brutal novel!

“How on earth can you say why you love people? You might as well say you know where the lighting is going to strike. At least that’s how it has always seemed to me.”

For a long time, I thought of “Wide Sargasso Sea” only when hearing the name Jean Rhys, but the synopsis wasn’t as intriguing to me. Instead, I browsed through my favourite second hand website and filtered thousands of books. My eyes landed on this short book - an author I’ve already heard great things about, intriguing title.

“Good Morning, Midnight” is interesting in itself. An Oxymoron for the sake of catching the reader’s attention? Total opposites to raise questions in people’s minds?

“Good Morning, Midnight” focuses on a young woman’s experiences in the middle of Paris, fighting loneliness in a city she fled to in order to escape personal tragedies. While searching for self-determination and independence, she encounters cheap hotel rooms, all looking the same but each more depressing than the one prior, and men of whom she expects nothing and, least of all, understanding and kindness.

Jean Rhys’s prose is much more than just beautiful and deserves, even demands, to be read. It is quite funny how we can see ourselves in a literary character in the 30s. Running away from our problems, even moving countries, dying our hair blonde on a random Thursday evening just because we felt like it, running from one café to another to kill time.

The writing was very stream-of-consciousness, perfectly fitting the character and my own mind. There was no direct plot to follow, only this very messed up female protagonist. I devoured every single page, and just like our main character, I expected nothing and just went with the flow.