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A few weeks back, searching my shelves for something appropriate for season, I pulled down my copy of Rebecca and realized I never actually read the book (shameful, Book Barmy).

I have, however, watched every film adaptation out there over the years.

The original by Alfred Hitchcock.

My favorite version from PBS, featuring Diana Rigg as the ominous Mrs. Danvers.

And, even the newest film adaptation on Netflix.

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But here I have this beautiful copy of Rebecca, which a British friend sent me years ago –back when postal prices made it affordable to ship things across the oceans.

So I settled in to finally read Rebecca. A classic, gothic, spooky tale without any of monsters or gore on which modern thrillers rely. (I’m not keen on monsters or gore, having never recovered from the one and only Stephen King novel I read as a teenager.)

You fine readers have probably already read Rebecca, or like me have seen a film adaption, so I won’t spend too much time recapping the familiar plot.

Our unnamed narrator is an inexperienced and insecure girl (and she is just a girl) with a limited future – unless serving as a companion to an overbearing busybody by the name of Mrs. Van Hopper could be called a promising prospect. So when the handsome, mysterious and wealthy Maxim de Winter seems to take an interest and offers a much more enticing alternative – that of being his wife – what is a girl to do but accept? The honeymoon at an end, the newly married couple returns to Manderley, Max de Winter’s estate. The newly minted Mrs. de Winter arrives at Manderley with nervous excitement. She is well aware of her shortcomings. She is too shy, too young, too trusting, and though she is pretty she can not compete with the legendary first wife — the beautiful Rebecca de Winter, who seems to haunt not only the estate itself, but the characters as well.

Where our narrator is both immature and naïve, Maxim is complicated and divided. Her happiness becomes dependent on his smiles, her misery decided by a harsh word. Thanks to their age difference, he’s forgotten what this is like, how raw and all-consuming first love can be, and he’s careless with her feelings because of it. Unlike the films, the wonderful writing intensifies Maxim’s callousness, and as he takes complete advantage of her throughout, I despised him from the point of his introduction.

One of the guilty pleasures of a good gothic novel is the description of a magnificent old house, so precise and rich in detail that you can fantasize about how delightful–or how scary–living in such a mansion might be. Manderly is such a place, which comes alive for the reader, and it’s particularly intriguing to have it described by our narrator who is experiencing it for the first time. Manderley is a major character in this novel — a living, breathing entity. The descriptions of this magnificent place were so masterfully crafted, I felt as if I were right there with Mrs. de Winter, as she attempts to master her new role.

Daphne Du Maurier actually based Manderley on an estate she rented, complete with the portrait on the stairs and with the odd name of Menabilly.

Appropriately, I finished Rebecca on Halloween night and it is indeed a classic gothic. We have mystery, intrigue, deception, twists, turns, misunderstandings, accusations, threats, and creepy characters that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

A woman, a man, another woman’s shadow; a landscape, a house, a hidden history. These six elements have formed the gothic novel from Jane Eyre, to Wuthering Heights, and the more recent The Thirteenth Tale.

Rebecca is unique to the genre, as in it Daphne du Maurier has simplified and organized these six elements, which emphasizes the gothic, and enriches the ambiguity of the estate, the story, and the characters.

Today as I write this, I am still in the trance of reading a great classic, and it has me wanting more – more gothic (maybe Jane Eyre?) and definitely more Daphne du Maurier.

Please, please you must read Rebecca – available at your local library.

Don’t wait like I did.

This novel has been around for awhile, but I never got to it. So, when looking through my library wish list — (because you know I don’t have any of my own books to read) — I realized I had added this novel way back in 2018. So decided it was time to give it a try.

Eleanor Oliphant is 29, works as a finance clerk in Glasgow, has no friends or social contacts and is both eccentric and opinionated. Written in the first person, the novel begins with Eleanor’s day to day life and her unfiltered description of herself and everyone she meets. She is an introvert, who doesn’t fit in at work and is very uncomfortable in social situations. On the weekends she drinks alone, does difficult cross word puzzles, and seldom speaks to anyone — hers is a solitary and lonely lifestyle.

It wasn’t that I needed anyone. I was, as I had mentioned, perfectly fine.

She’s oblivious to how her actions appear to those around her and blames any awkwardness on the other person. Her private thoughts are witty, and often harsh judgements, about everything and everyone. Eleanor lacks both filters and self-awareness — so ends up saying things out loud that most of us wouldn’t dream of saying.

As you read this novel, if you’re like me, you’ll start to feel protective of Eleanor as she bumbles her way through the world in odd clothes and her sensible Velcro closure shoes.

I’d tried so hard, but something about me just didn’t fit. There was, it seemed, no Eleanor-shaped social hole for me to slot into.

Through out the book, Eleanor’s troubled past is revealed little by little, and the reader starts to realize that Eleanor Oliphant is Not Completely Fine.

Eleanor’s metamorphosis begins when an old man collapses in the street and, with her co-worker Raymond, they help and befriend him. She is soon visiting the old man in the hospital and becomes fond of Raymond, despite a fantasy crush on a singer in a local theater. She decides to step up her game, having her hair colored and styled, buying a new outfit (with non-Velcro shoes), and even submits to a makeup demonstration at department store. Eleanor finds the experience both exasperating and exciting.

Was this how it worked, then, successful social integration? Was it really that simple? Wear some lipstick, go to the hair dressers and alternate the clothes you wear? Someone ought to write a book, or at least an explanatory pamphlet, and pass the information on.

Most importantly she starts therapy, which as you can imagine is not a pleasant experience for our Eleanor. Her private thoughts about her therapist are both catty and funny. But, little by little, she confides bits and pieces of her past to the therapist and they form an uneasy but important bond.

I raced through this book, wanting things to go well for Eleanor and wanting to see what was going to happen to her next. Ms. Honeyman has created a character both fierce and independent yet also breathtakingly vulnerable. In one sentence her inner dialogue states:

I have always taken great pride in managing my life alone. I’m a sole survivor – I’m Eleanor Oliphant

Only later in the chapter to lament:

I could not solve the puzzle of me.

The author, Gail Honeyman said:

It’s a story of the transformational power of small acts of kindness. She wrote Eleanor’s life, as a person who has been knocked off kilter by an unnamed childhood horror which she can only recall from her sense of, before and after, and although she’s had a fairly catastrophic start in life, Eleanor is still the agent of her own life. She goes on to say that she didn’t want to write her as a victim, and didn’t want her to be self-pitying either. She tried to leave space in the narrative, so the reader could feel those feelings on her behalf.

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine gifts the reader with a character who will stick with you long after the novel is finished. I found Eleanor funny yet sad – smart yet naive.

It’s a wonderful exploration of how socialization can be effortless for most, while at the same time, cringe-worthily awkward for those who are different. I am fortunate to be in the former group, but I know those who fall into the latter. After reading this novel, I feel a greater understanding and empathy — as if I have walked a mile in their sensible Velcro shoes.