When looking at the greatest ghost stories ever written, one has to consider Daphne Du Maurier's "Rebecca." This isn't to say that a ghost even appears. The titular character is there, but she never speaks. The whole story centers around the new Mrs. de Winter as she enters into a marriage that gives her access to the illusive Manderley mansion. It's a wondrous place, but it's also home to one of the most beautifully written Gothic stories of the 20th century. What follows is a story all about the discomfort of feeling like an outsider, like the world is going to swallow you whole with just one slip-up and make you another victim. "Rebecca" is a novel that captivates the human spirit (sometimes literally), finding ways to explore a feeling of inferiority wrapped in a mystery that remains just as sharp and shocking over 80 years later. Du Maurier's masterpiece offers plenty of inspiring passages, and it's a world that the reader will not want to leave.
It all starts with one of the most popular first lines in literary history. It's reminiscing on a return to Manderley, to visit a house that feels like it's become haunted, full of rusts and creaks. Even amid these details, there's a beauty to everything. Du Maurier describes the foliage with such affection that she makes weeds like nettles into something more symbolic, reflecting a thorny yet fragile plant that will sting if grabbed. That is the cage that Rebecca de Winter lives inside. As Mr. de Winter's ex-wife, there is always something ominous, intangible to her. They have never met, and yet Mrs. de Winter exists in her shadow, not really given much of an identity outside of being a man's property, needing to find ways to be something greater.
The novel is packed with vivid details that find an observant narrator slowly revealing her intent, allowing her consciousness to expand along with the audience. Everything feels mysterious as if the house if full of clues. There's a symbolism of the waiting staff having inferiority to Mr. de Winter, serving as commentary from du Maurier about the various ways that people can feel oppressed. At the center is Ms. Danvers, who was a servant who is coded as having a love interest in Rebecca, adding these affectionate touches that are unrequited at best. Everything feels bittersweet, again out of touch like the weeds that seek to swallow the home and rob it of its value.
Every page is captivating as a character study, managing to feel alive in every observation. Rarely has a house felt more organic than it does here, getting more affectionate detail than Rebecca herself. Still, both are relevant to understanding the madness that will unfold in the final stretch, giving one of the most ingenious twists of 20th-century literature. There's a reason that the novel has never been out of print. Every section of the book has a moment that will draw the reader to want to read on, discovering more about the horrifying past. What are we not knowing about Rebecca simply because she's not there to share her story? It becomes clear as Mr. de Winter becomes more and more unpleasant, though even then the shock is organic and satisfying to the overall conclusion.
"Rebecca" remains a masterpiece for a very good reason. Told in the first person, it manages to use symbolism at its full potential, romanticizing darkness in such a way that the reader becomes captivated by what is said. What does a garden have to say about Rebecca? In a literal sense, not much. In a metaphorical sense, the book is so full of life, finding these ghosts hidden in details that are unsuspecting. It's a captivating experience and one that makes Manderley one of the most memorable houses in all of literary history. It's so full of clues that are likely in need of exploring even further. With that said, it all comes to a vibrant conclusion that is just as impressive as the first page. This is a methodical novel where everything both makes sense and will fills the reader with concern about everyone's safety. We never meet Rebecca, and yet she remains the most compelling character by the end. In some ways, the one most absent ends up being the most human, and that's du Maurier's greatest gift in this timeless novel.
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