Instead of a review, here is a love-letter...
"Dear Daphne,
Have you heard that Cole Porter song? I guess you are not one of those starry-eyed romantics; you would be much more content with the sound of your typewriter keys or the scratch of the nib on a sheet of paper. If not, well let me quote it for you verbatim.
'Let's do it, Daphne. Let's fall in love'.
Of course, it will be an uphill task to woo you. How can it not be? I can imagine you, staring at me with your calm, quietly exquisite eyes and there is a question lingering at their edges. 'What is all this now? How come you fell in love with me, when we have not even met, when you happen to be living in an island city far away in India, that land of spices and seduction, while I am here in the gale-swept coast of Cornwall (forgive my limited knowledge of geography, Daphne darling)? And I suspect that you have evil designs, you might be trying to get rid of a lover (no, no, it's not true, Daphne!) or you are merely infatuated with me, with how beautiful I must be looking and you don't really care about how I feel inside.' Yes, they might be very valid arguments and you would not like it too if I called you 'darling' just for the fun of it.
But please, oh please, listen to me, Daphne, or at least just come back from the heavens and read what I have to write about this book of yours, a book of stories (I am so sorry, dear, I could not read 'Rebecca' or 'Jamaica Inn' yet but they are on the way) that really made me fall in love with your fingers (I am sorry, I did not mean to objectify you that way) or rather with that beautiful, maddeningly intriguing mind of yours that drove your fingers to write these stories.
Will you read this first, please? Here it goes:
'It begins with a flock of birds going a little restless in the throes of winter. It ends with a pair of swans flying into the winter sunlit sky.
Six stories that are not entirely made of suspense, or even romance or tragedy. Rather, six beautiful, haunting, richly suspenseful, romantic and even elegiac stories that leave the reader at the end with a swirling blend of these feelings at the same time.
Each story is more melancholic, intense, brilliantly crafted and indelible than the last and while I am perfectly aware that one of them got filmed as a seminal horror film by a master filmmaker (no, Daphne dear, even he cannot better you, darling), I will always treasure what you wrote first and as a favor to the uninitiated, I am not revealing even the names so that the suspense, horror and brilliance remain intact and untouched. How dare does anyone spoil it all!
And these stories feature an extraordinary cast of people to be found in the most vivid dreams and the most horrifying nightmares. No creatures or ghouls. No monsters or aliens. No zombies or vampires. Just men and women, driven to the edge of reason and evil by their crazy, selfish, greedy, inscrutable hearts.
There are men weighed down with the burden of their toxic masculinity, there are other men who are struggling nobly against forces that they cannot quite fathom, there are women who are sad-eyed and yet eloquent, there are women who claw and struggle for escape and there are many femme fatales to be found lurking in the shadows with their own heart-breaking secrets. (Who, I ask now aloud, can create femme fatales as brilliantly as you do, Daphne?)
And so, we are taken along on a mesmeric dance of beauty and terror, into the sweeping seaside and menacing, mysterious mountains, deep inside melancholic woods and on the desolate streets of London, set to the music of the weeping willows and the roaring gulls, the crash of waves on rocks and the drop of rain on the pavements. Oh, it's positively lovely, like sin, like the night, like death.'
I hope you liked it, Daphne. Now, I urge you again, let's fall in love. Let's go on a date some night, preferably in a double-deck bus (they have those too in my city as well), and dance a waltz among the graves in the night. Or rather let's go to the countryside, perhaps to the coast (my city is by the sea already) and sit there to listen to the gulls and the waves. And perhaps then, we can feel that love engulfing our hearts too. And we can then stare each other down over dinner. Just make sure that they don't serve apple pie for dessert.
And I imagine your reply.
'But, you are so busy in the company of those... men. That man with the name of a colour! I know he writes brilliantly and I admire that film he wrote as well but can't you leave him for a while, on his lascivious, lusty hunt for pot and drink and women across the world? That is not that dignified a thing to do, you know! And what about that bearded wizard who writes the funny papers as if they are novels? He is up to no good too! And what about that India-loving imperialist poet? I know he writes beautifully, no matter what he thinks of the Raj! But still, how can you admire him so much?'
And I lower my head humbly and with a faint voice of sad indecisiveness, I admit that they are family, crazy as they might be, but I cannot leave them completely. And that does it. You are already walking away and I go down on my knees and beg you to stay.
Oh, how I wish I had been a better man, a better lover, Daphne darling! Please be mine.
With Love,
Zoeb"