Prepare to feel discomfort and all manner of emotions reading this book, and it is for that reason I urge you to read it unaware of any of its many stunning attributes—stop reading this now and go read it then come back; to do anything but would do the story a disservice. I went in knowing nothing about it and thought it was a romance.

It is a stunning piece of feminist literature. Written in 1940, du Maurier pens elegant prose around a stilted quaintly world of the British patriarchal rich—what we plebs call the aristocracy—written from the perspective of someone who is not. The gender issues alone will make you grind teeth; there’s even some racism in the form of black and brown face discussed briefly; classism is a major theme and a vague illusion to queerness hides in plain sight. Eloquent in its writing style, Rebecca bears witness with far more awareness and atmosphere to how much space women make for men, oftentimes at the expense of our own—in all things, even our very lives. It’s quite infuriating and thorough, but beautifully and remarkably rendered. This book is an entire semester of gender studies—possibly two. I went in search of the many feminist essays afterward and wasn’t disappointed.

Continue reading here.

Rebecca