waking up to an inconsistent man and sprawling gardens

with a cast of characters that don’t reveal enough

Fiction, 1938

I’ve been waking up to landscapes of lush, wet green. The onset of monsoon brings about lizards, frizz, and, personally, the desire to stay cosied up in bed while reading Rebecca. I first read the novel sometime early in 2020 and devoured it in two days. I remember once when I was taking my cat out for a walk on his leash while reading the book. I was so caught up in the novel that I accidentally let go of the leash to turn the page. My cat didn’t realise, and no harm was done. But the increase in heart rate has been clocked by my body.

You may think, “Mahika, I don’t want to read classics! Why would I inhale dust when I could pick one of your contemporary recommendations instead?” This is a fair question. And as someone who struggles with dust allergies, I can empathise deeply. But Rebecca is a novel that’s just too good to be slotted into any category. It’s unfair to list it as a classic because, in all honesty, it doesn’t read like one. The only thing that feels dated about it is the behaviour of men in the book. But men behave badly at any time, any age! If I absolutely had to put it under any sub-genre, I would slot it into the reaches of sad girl/girlbloggercore of literary fiction. 

As is the case with all my favourite books, we have an unnamed and unreliable narrator. While in France, she meets an older, wealthy, widowed man. A strange little love affair begins, and before we really know what his feelings are towards her, they marry and pack up for Manderley—his sprawling, magnetic, and sinister estate. The narrator explores the grounds (haphazardly), attempts conversation with her husband (to no result), and grows increasingly curious about his previous wife—Rebecca. The language is so propulsive that you will forgive me for almost losing my cat, and the descriptions of Manderely are so vivid, and lastingly haunting, that the mere sight of wet leaves pulls me in for a re-read.

Song - tolerate it 

Film - This is a toughie, because the book has such a film legacy to it. If you want to watch an adaption, pretend the new Netflix one doesn’t exist and go for Hitchcock. But if you want the book's vibe (as I usually base these on), go for Mulholland Drive. Lynch gets the weirdness just right.

Note: It’s been one year of bookcrumbs! Thank you so much for tuning in to my little corner of the internet. This space brings me so much joy, and I hope you’ve gotten a recommendation or two out of it. It’s weird that so many of you (strangers connected over underwater cables) know such specific details about both my reading habits and my life. Thank you for listening to me.