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reesepective 's review for:
Rebecca
by Daphne du Maurier
Manderley, Manderley, Manderley—take me there, please! There’s something truly magical about how Daphne du Maurier brings this place to life. Whether it was a fancy dinner in Monte Carlo or a quiet stroll through the gardens of Manderley, I felt like I could almost smell the flowers and hear the clinking of glasses. Seriously, the setting in this book is immaculate.
Now, onto the real reason why this book slaps: the mystery, the tension, and the characters. Daphne du Maurier has this uncanny ability to make you feel like you’re walking alongside these characters, experiencing every ounce of their drama, dread, and desire. It’s so vivid, it’s like you’re watching a movie instead of reading a book.
Plot-wise? Think Jane Eyre, but better. Yes, Rebecca takes a page from Charlotte Brontë’s playbook, but Daphne du Maurier keeps the surprises coming way past the halfway mark. The plot twists don’t slow down; they keep you guessing until the final page. Unlike Charlotte Brontë’s tale, which gives away the big reveal well before the end, Rebecca keeps you hooked and holding your breath the entire time.
I’ll admit, while reading, I couldn’t shake this feeling of sadness creeping in. The protagonist’s sense of isolation, insecurity, and the all-consuming presence of Rebecca de Winter—it gets under your skin, and not always in a good way. But that’s what makes it so beautiful and haunting; you feel all the emotions, even the uncomfortable ones.
Ah, the protagonist—let’s talk about her more. She was the queen of self-doubt. Honestly, the poor thing had such an inferiority complex, that I found myself questioning if she even had a name (spoiler: she doesn’t, and I was still left guessing after I finished the book). She had this ability to shrink herself so small, that you couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pity. She’s the kind of girl who constantly questions her worth, has an imaginary dialogue going on in her head 24/7, and just cannot catch a break.
I mean, sure, she was naively trusting, desperate to please, and prone to making things worse by trying too hard to fix them—but hey, I felt for her. She was so painfully human. Her life was like a series of little mistakes turned into giant catastrophes. I think we’ve all had those moments where we act before we think, hoping to make things better, only to make them worse. So yeah, I sympathised with her on a deeply spiritual level. We've all been in that mess of confusion at some point.
But hold on, there’s another character here who deserves all the attention: Rebecca de Winter herself. The title says it all—Rebecca de Winter is a presence. At first, she’s nothing but a dead body, a memory, a shadow lingering over everything. But as the story unfolds, Rebecca de Winter’s ghost becomes so vivid, so alive in the narrator’s mind, it’s like she’s still haunting every page. Daphne du Maurier deserves mad props for this because, by the end of the book, Rebecca de Winter isn’t just the dead girl from the beginning; she’s a full-fledged character, more compelling and captivating than most of the living ones.
Rebecca de Winter may have been dead, but trust me, she was never gone.
Now, onto the real reason why this book slaps: the mystery, the tension, and the characters. Daphne du Maurier has this uncanny ability to make you feel like you’re walking alongside these characters, experiencing every ounce of their drama, dread, and desire. It’s so vivid, it’s like you’re watching a movie instead of reading a book.
Plot-wise? Think Jane Eyre, but better. Yes, Rebecca takes a page from Charlotte Brontë’s playbook, but Daphne du Maurier keeps the surprises coming way past the halfway mark. The plot twists don’t slow down; they keep you guessing until the final page. Unlike Charlotte Brontë’s tale, which gives away the big reveal well before the end, Rebecca keeps you hooked and holding your breath the entire time.
I’ll admit, while reading, I couldn’t shake this feeling of sadness creeping in. The protagonist’s sense of isolation, insecurity, and the all-consuming presence of Rebecca de Winter—it gets under your skin, and not always in a good way. But that’s what makes it so beautiful and haunting; you feel all the emotions, even the uncomfortable ones.
Ah, the protagonist—let’s talk about her more. She was the queen of self-doubt. Honestly, the poor thing had such an inferiority complex, that I found myself questioning if she even had a name (spoiler: she doesn’t, and I was still left guessing after I finished the book). She had this ability to shrink herself so small, that you couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pity. She’s the kind of girl who constantly questions her worth, has an imaginary dialogue going on in her head 24/7, and just cannot catch a break.
I mean, sure, she was naively trusting, desperate to please, and prone to making things worse by trying too hard to fix them—but hey, I felt for her. She was so painfully human. Her life was like a series of little mistakes turned into giant catastrophes. I think we’ve all had those moments where we act before we think, hoping to make things better, only to make them worse. So yeah, I sympathised with her on a deeply spiritual level. We've all been in that mess of confusion at some point.
But hold on, there’s another character here who deserves all the attention: Rebecca de Winter herself. The title says it all—Rebecca de Winter is a presence. At first, she’s nothing but a dead body, a memory, a shadow lingering over everything. But as the story unfolds, Rebecca de Winter’s ghost becomes so vivid, so alive in the narrator’s mind, it’s like she’s still haunting every page. Daphne du Maurier deserves mad props for this because, by the end of the book, Rebecca de Winter isn’t just the dead girl from the beginning; she’s a full-fledged character, more compelling and captivating than most of the living ones.
Rebecca de Winter may have been dead, but trust me, she was never gone.