One of the main purposes of reading, which I had not known for many years, is to reflect. Reflect upon one's experiences, thoughts, and even emotions that have coursed their soul for short and long periods of time alike. Ever since I discovered it, it followed me silently wherever I went, and as much as I hate to admit it, I have had some issues with accepting it.
I knew instantly that something was not right after I wrote that first review. It always seemed a bit unsuitable, as though I was grasping at straws, searching for any reason to dislike this book deep inside. But the memory of it never left me, forcing me to, once again, face what I had faced before, this time with a more open mindset.
At its core, Rebecca is a story about ordinary people in unordinary situations, which is even said in the work itself. The theme may not be anything new, but it allowed the author to tell the story in a way only she could, playfully subverting old expectations for those types of stories.
Thus, it is obvious that the characters are the best part. The two villains, Mrs Danvers and the ghost of Rebecca, stand out in particular.
The former is delightfully creepy, her strange behaviours so memorable that it is no wonder she has become as iconic as she did, yet there is still a deeper element to her personality placed in subtle sentences with hints about who she is within.
The latter, even without a single word spoken, manages to be far more of a character than most of the cast, engulfing the walls of Manderley and the minds of everyone around her like a thick, dark fog, remembered for everything she did, creeping around the estate and possessing the narrator after the fire (which was amazingly described, just like everything else) in a way, carving the memory of herself long after her demise in lieu of having an heir.
The narrator is by far the most relatable of the cast, expressing the insecurity of early life and love in full detail, her insecurities and worries and "what if"s having layers upon layers that only a person like du Maurier, who truly understood those feelings, could have written about with such accuracy and skill. Many people have known them, but most have never done it on this level. It takes quite an effort to write about it in such a manner, and I very much respect the author for that.
Another thing I like about her, which, oddly enough, I have not noticed the first time around, is her arc. Throughout the story, she is repeatedly compared to the family puppy with its naivete and sweetness and meekness, walking on eggshells around Maxim, wandering from those aspects of her personality and behaving in ways that remind him of Rebecca in small fragments. In the end, when she finds out the truth about the tragedy, it consumes her completely yet subtly, inverting the roles, and becoming what he had feared. Now he's compared to the family puppy and she's the one commanding him, continuing this way into the later years of her life. Now it is easier to understand why her name was never written. It was her destiny, to take place of Rebecca even outside the bounds of Manderley, even as everything seems different and their life there far away. It was a rather fitting ending, to be honest.
The plot was also tightly planned. Not much worse than the characterisation, which is quite the compliment. The part I liked the most, which proves my point, was Maxim's trial. All the potential ways Rebecca could have died on the boat, appropriately named and a lot more symbolic than I would have thought the first time, all the potential reasons for her suicide, every little truthful and untruthful detail was meticulously chosen, giving the appearance of any real investigation. It is not something to ignore.
It is no surprise that this has gone on to be the most influential book of the twentieth century, and I am glad to finally be able to see why.
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