Author: Daphne du Maurier
Title: Rebecca
Year of publication: 1938
Page count: 448
Rating: ★★★★★
“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…”
I loved everything about this book, but the one qualm I have…. it was the wrong time of year to pick it up. I can just picture myself reading this in a big cushioned armchair, wrapped up in a blanket, with a steaming cup of tea (or hot cocoa with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles on top) next to me, while it’s storming outside and I’m petting a purring cat in front of the crackling logs in my fireplace.
Nevermind that I don’t own a cushioned armchair, or a cat, or a house with a fireplace. But you get the idea – it’s an incredibly atmospheric and descriptive book that I’ve come to associate with late fall. I just loved that it starts and ends with a dream, a stylistic detail that made it even more deliciously ominous and foreboding. The book is very allegorical—I’m sure multiple readings will be rewarded with the discovery of yet more layers of meaning—and it’s this symbolism that feeds the reader’s imagination more than the mere narration of plot or even the stunning descriptions of Manderley.
It’s a novel beloved by the public (it hasn’t gone out of print since its publication in 1938, and it’s estimated it still sells a steady 4000 copies a month), but I feel like critics never really gave it the time of day, and did it an incredible disservice by branding and dismissing it as a “gothic romance”. I’d argue that this book certainly exemplifies the modern gothic novel in the most beautiful way, but it isn’t any more of a love story than works like Lolita or Romeo and Juliet are, and as with those, being marketed to the masses as a “romantic” read turned it into a widely misunderstood and misinterpreted story. It’s a psychological suspense novel, and Du Maurier herself insisted that it was in part “a study in jealousy”, largely inspired by her own marriage, but also the exploration of the relationship between a powerful man and a weak woman. Here we have a novel with an invisible namesake and a nameless protagonist, and that intriguing narrative choice alone makes this novel worth reading—I can’t think of any other book where the theme of identity is dealt with in quite this way.
Still, there’s been a lot of talk ever since publication that Du Maurier may have plagiarized a Brazilian novel, but honestly… I don’t even care. I may read it at some point (just as I read Battle Royale after people kept saying that The Hunger Games was a rip-off) to form my own opinion, but even if she lifted the idea/plot from it (and a lot of evidence does point to it), I doubt the Brazilian novel is anywhere near as masterfully crafted and skillfully written as Rebecca. I don’t mind when an author borrows themes or ideas as long as it’s done well, and besides, copyright covers specific expressions, not ideas… and the idea at the root of Rebecca is as old as time. I went in completely blind; I had no idea what the book was about, and I didn’t know anything about its history or the author’s life, yet I mostly figured out the twists before they happened (which, however, didn’t mar my enjoyment or the suspense of it at all). There’s just something familiar about the novel; it’s so full of archetypes it’s almost a myth—a story you’ve subconsciously heard before, with echoes of Grimm’s fairytales: A little Cinderella mixed in with a dash of Bluebeard to create a modern reflection of Jane Eyre.
*** SKIP PARAGRAPH TO AVOID SPOILERS ***
I’ve since watched Hitchcock’s Oscar-winning adaptation (I am so glad I somehow managed to miss it when I went on a Hitchcock-binge in my teenage years), and while it’s generally considered one of his very best, I feel like the decision to have Rebecca die in a freak accident at the most opportune of moments rather than having Maxim carry out his murderous intent really spoils what makes this novel so chilling after you’ve closed the back cover – because that’s when you realize that what you assumed was an elderly couple is really Maxim and his second wife, who at this point is probably in her mid-twenties, living out their lives in a self-imposed exile in Europe—forever destined to monotony, dullness, and ennui, in a marriage that is seemingly devoid of passion. Maxim didn’t only literally kill his first wife, he killed the second one as well, at least in the most figurative sense.
*** END OF SPOILERS ***
I think it’s a masterpiece, and it’s going on my metaphoric favorites-shelf—the images it painted in my head will stay with me for a long time, and I can’t wait to read more of Du Maurier’s work.
watercolorstain 