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Either You Go To America With Mrs. Van Hopper Or You Come Home To Manderley With Me." "do You Mean You Want A Secretary Or Something?" "no, I'm Asking You To Marry Me, You Little Fool.

-Daphne Du Maurier

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Either You Go To

Daphne Du Maurier

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Either You Go To America With Mrs. Van Hopper Or You Come Home To Manderley With Me." "do You Mean You Want A Secretary Or Something?" "no, I'm Asking You To Marry Me, You Little Fool.

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No Person Will Ever Get Into My Blood As A Place Can ... People And Things Pass Away, But Not Places.

The Point Is, Life Has To Be Endured, And Lived. But How To Live It Is The Problem.

We Are All Ghosts Of Yesterday, And The Phantom Of Tomorrow Awaits Us Alike In Sunshine Or In Shadow, Dimly Perceived At Times, Never Entirely Lost.

I Held Out My Arms To Him And He Came To Me Like A Child.

We Can Never Go Back Again, That Much Is Certain. The Past Is Still Close To Us. The Things We Have Tried To Forget And Put Behind Us Would Stir Again, And That Sense Of Fear, Of Furtive Unrest, Struggling At Length To Blind Unreasoning Panic - Now Mercifully Stilled, Thank God - Might In Some Manner Unforeseen Become A Living Companion As It Had Before.

I Believe There Is A Theory That Men And Women Emerge Finer And Stronger After Suffering, An That To Advance In This Or Any World We Must Endure Ordeal By Fire." (from Rebecca)

He Lacked Tenderness; He Was Rude; And He Had More Than A Streak Of Cruelty In Him; He Was A Thief And A Liar. He Stood For Everything She Feared And Hated And Despised; But She Knew She Could Love Him... This Was No Choice Made With The Mind.

...as The Slow Sea Sucked At The Shore And Then Withdrew, Leaving The Strip Of Seaweed Bare And The Shingle Churned, The Sea Birds Raced And Ran Upon The Beaches. Then That Same Impulse To Flight Seized Upon Them Too. Crying, Whistling, Calling, They Skimmed The Placid Sea And Left The Shore. Make Haste, Make Speed, Hurry And Begone; Yet Where, And To What Purpose? The Restless Urge Of Autumn, Unsatisfying, Sad, Had Put A Spell Upon Them And They Must Flock, And Wheel, And Cry; They Must Spill Themselves Of Motion Before Winter Came.

You Had To Endure Something Yourself Before It Touched You.

This House Sheltered Us, We Spoke, We Loved Within Those Walls. That Was Yesterday. To-day We Pass On, We See It No More, And We Are Different, Changed In Some Infinitesimal Way. We Can Never Be Quite The Same Again.

When One Is Writing A Novel In The First Person, One Must Be That Person.

...but I Should Say That Kindliness, And Sincerity, And If I May Say So--modesty--are Worth Far More To A Man, To A Husband, Than All The Wit And Beauty In The World.

I Could Fight With The Living But I Could Not Fight The Dead. If There Was Some Woman In London That Maxim Loved, Someone He Wrote To, Visited, Dined With, Slept With, I Could Fight Her. We Would Stand On Common Ground. I Should Not Be Afraid. Anger And Jealousy Were Things That Could Be Conquered. One Day The Woman Would Grow Old Or Tired Or Different, And Maxim Would Not Love Her Anymore. But Rebecca Would Never Grow Old. Rebecca Would Always Be The Same. And She And I Could Not Fight. She Was To Strong For Me.

Here Was The Freedom I Desired, Long Sought-for, Not Yet Known Freedom To Write, To Walk, To Wander, Freedom To Climb Hills, To Pull A Boat, To Be Alone.

I Had Build Up False Pictures In My Mind And Sat Before Them. I Had Never Had The Courage To Demand The Truth.

Happiness Happens When You Fit With Your Life, When You Fit So Harmoniously That Whatsoever You Are Doing Is Your Joy. Happiness Is Not A Possession To Be Prized, It Is A Quality Of Thought, A State Of Mind.

The Trouble Is, Walking In Venice Becomes Compulsive Once You Start. Just Over The Next Bridge, You Say, And Then The Next One Beckons.

The Urge To Climb Will Never Be Explained. In Olden Days, Perhaps It Was A Wish To Reach The Stars. Today, Anyone So Minded Can Buy A Seat On A Plane And Feel Himself Master Of The Skies. Even So, He Will Not Have Rock Under His Feet, Or Air Upon His Face; Nor Will He Know The Silence That Comes Only On The Hills.

Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

Why, He Wondered, Should He Remember Her Suddenly, On Such A Day, Watching The Rain Falling On The Apple Trees?

Happiness Is Not A Possession To Be Prized, It Is A Quality Of Thought, A State Of Mind.

We Can See The Film Stars Of Yesterday In Yesterday’s Films, Hear The Voices Of Poest And Singers On A Record, Keep The Plays Of Dead Dramatists Upon Our Bookshelves, But The Actor Who Holds His Audience Captive For One Brief Moment Upon A Lighted Stage Vanishes Forever When The Curtain Falls.

There Is No Going Back In Life. There Is No Return. No Second Chance.

Life Was A Series Of Greetings And Farewells, One Was Always Saying Good-bye To Something, To Someone.

Writers Should Be Read, But Neither Seen Nor Heard.

I Would Have Gone Too But I Wanted To Come Straight Back To You.i Kept Thinking Of You, Waiting Here, All By Yourself, Not Knowing What Was Going To Happen.

Thinking Of You

Once A Person Gave His Talent To The World, The World Put A Stamp Upon It. The Talent Was Not A Personal Possession Any More. It Was Something To Be Traded, Bought And Sold. It Fetched A High Price, Or A Low One. It Was Kicked In The Common Market.

So You See, When War Comes To One’s Village, One’s Doorstep, It Isn’t Tragic And Impersonal Any Longer. It Is Just An Excuse To Vomit Private Hatred. That Is Why I Am Not A Great Patriot.

It Wouldn't Make For Sanity Would It, Living With The Devil.

He Was Like Someone Sleeping Who Woke Suddenly And Found The World...all The Beauty Of It, And The Sadness Too. The Hunger And The Thirst. Everything He Had Never Thought About Or Known Was There Before Him, And Magnified Into One Person Who By Chance, Or Fate--call It What You Will--happened To Be Me.

No, Mary Had No Illusions About Romance. Falling In Love Was A Pretty Name For It, That Was All.

Falling In Love

A Bad Workman Blames His Tools.

Entrepreneurship

I Have No Talent For Making New Friends, But Oh Such Genius For Fidelity To Old Ones.

Women Want Love To Be A Novel, Men A Short Story.

There's Something About Paris That Gives You A Mental Slap All The Time, And You Can't Just Sit Still And Do Nothing. You've Got To Work, To Keep Up With The Pace, The Sting In The Atmosphere.

Jem Was Safe From Her, And He Would Ride Away With A Song On His Lips And A Laugh At Her Expense, Forgetful Of Her, And Of His Brother, And Of God; While She Dragged Through The Years, Sullen And Bitter, The Stain Of Silence Marking Her, Coming In The End To Ridicule As A Soured Spinster Who Had Been Kissed Once In Her Life And Could Not Forget It.

Living As We Do In An Age Of Noise And Bluster, Success Is Now Measured Accordingly. We Must All Be Seen, And Heard, And On The Air.

All Autobiography Is Self-indulgent.

How Lacking In Intuition Men Could Be In Persuading Themselves That Mending Some Stranger's Socks, And Attending To His Comfort, Could Content A Woman.

The Road To Manderley Lay Ahead. There Was No Moon. The Sky Above Our Heads Was Inky Black. But The Sky On The Horizon Was Not Dark At All. It Was Shot With Crimson, Like A Splash Of Blood. And The Ashes Blew Towards Us With The Salt Wind From The Sea.

We're Not Meant For Happiness, You And I.

Writing Every Book Is Like A Purge; At The End Of It One Is Empty ... Like A Dry Shell On The Beach, Waiting For The Tide To Come In Again.

He Stole Horses' You'll Say To Yourself, 'and He Didn't Care For Women; And But For My Pride I'd Have Been With Him Now.

I Am Glad It Cannot Happen Twice, The Fever Of First Love. For It Is A Fever, And A Burden, Too, Whatever The Poets May Say.

Because I Want To; Because I Must; Because Now And Forever More This Is Where I Belong To Be.

What About The Hero Of The House On The Strand? What Did It Mean When He Dropped The Telephone At The End Of The Book? I Don't Really Know, But I Rather Think He Was Going To Be Paralysed For Life. Don't You?

Men Are Simpler Than You Imagine My Sweet Child. But What Goes On In The Twisted, Tortuous Minds Of Women Would Baffle Anyone.

Last Night I Dreamt I Went To Manderley Again.

People Who Travel Are Always Fugitives.

If Only There Could Be An Invention That Bottled Up A Memory, Like Scent. And It Never Faded, And It Never Got Stale. And Then, When One Wanted It, The Bottle Could Be Uncorked, And It Would Be Like Living The Moment All Over Again.

Live In The Moment

How Pleasant,' Dona Said, Peeling Her Fruit; 'the Rest Of Us Can Only Run Away From Time To Time, And However Much We Pretend To Be Free, We Know It Is Only For A Little While - Our Hands And Our Feet Are Tied.

But I Have Had Enough Melodrama In This Life, And Would Willingly Give My Five Senses If They Could Ensure Us Our Present Peace And Security. Happiness Is Not A Possession To Be Prized, It Is A Quality Of Thought, A State Of Mind. Of Course We Have Our Moments Of Depression; But There Are Other Moments Too, When Time, Unmeasured By The Clock, Runs On Into Eternity And, Catching His Smile, I Know We Are Together, We March In Unison, No Flash Of Thought Or Opinion Makes A Barrier Between Us.

I Would Not Be Young Again, If You Offered Me The World. But Then I'm Prejudiced.' 'you Talk,' I Said, 'as If You Were Ninety-nine.' 'for A Woman I Very Nearly Am,' She Said. 'i'm Thirty Five.

Come And See Us If You Feel Like It,' She Said. 'i Always Expect People To Ask Themselves. Life Is Too Short To Send Out Invitations.

Life Is Too Short

A Familiar Name On Its Own, However, Does Not Carry Its Bearer Far Unless The Talent Is There, And The Will To Work.

If There’s One Thing That Makes A Man Sick, It’s To Have His Ale Poured Out Of An Ugly Hand.

When She Smiled It Was As Though She Embraced The World.

Will You Look Into My Eyes And Tell Me That You Love Me Now?

…you Guessed That Somewhere, In Heaven Knew What Country And What Guise, There Was Someone Who Was Part Of Your Body And Your Brain, And That Without Him You Were Lost, A Straw Blown By The Wind.

I Could Not Ask Forgiveness For Something I Had Not Done. As Scapegoat, I Could Only Bear The Fault.

He Had The Face Of One Who Walks In His Sleep, And For A Wild Moment The Idea Came To Me That Perhaps He Was Not Normal, Not Altogether Sane. There Were People Who Had Trances, I Had Surely Heard Of Them, And They Followed Strange Laws Of Which We Could Know Nothing, They Obeyed The Tangled Orders Of Their Own Sub-conscious Minds. Perhaps He Was One Of Them, And Here We Were Within Six Feet Of Death.

Here Was A Silence Between Them For A Moment, And She Wondered If All Women, When In Love, Were Torn Between Two Impulses, A Longing To Throw Modesty And Reserve To The Winds And Confess Everything, And An Equal Determination To Conceal The Love Forever, To Be Cool, Aloof, Utterly Detached, To Die Rather Than Admit A Thing So Personal, So Intimate.

The Moment Of Crisis Had Come, And I Must Face It. My Old Fears, My Diffidence, My Shyness, My Hopeless Sense Of Inferiority, Must Be Conquered Now And Thrust Aside. If I Failed Now I Should Fail Forever.

Look On Each Day That Comes As A Challenge, As A Test Of Courage. The Pain Will Come In Waves, Some Days Worse Than Others, For No Apparent Reason. Accept The Pain. Little By Little, You Will Find New Strength, New Vision, Born Of The Very Pain And Loneliness Which Seem, At First, Impossible To Master.

I Suppose Sooner Or Later In The Life Of Everyone Comes A Moment Of Trial. We All Of Us Have Our Particular Devil Who Rides Us And Torments Us, And We Must Give Battle In The End.

Looking From The Window At The Fantastic Light And Colour Of My Glittering Fairy-world Of Fact That Holds No Tenderness, No Quietude, I Long Suddenly For Peace, For Understanding.

Those Dripping Crumpets, I Can See Them Now. Tiny Crisp Wedges Of Toast, And Piping-hot, Flaky Scones. Sandwiches Of Unknown Nature, Mysteriously Flavoured And Quite Delectable, And That Very Special Gingerbread. Angel Cake, That Melted In The Mouth, And His Rather Stodgier Companion, Bursting With Peel And Raisins. There Was Enough Food There To Keep A Starving Family For A Week.

Life And Death Do Not Wait For Legal Action.

Either You Go To America With Mrs. Van Hopper Or You Come Home To Manderley With Me." "do You Mean You Want A Secretary Or Something?" "no, I'm Asking You To Marry Me, You Little Fool.

[referring To The Birds:] Nat Listened To The Tearing Sound Of Splintering Wood, And Wondered How Many Million Years Of Memory Were Stored In Those Little Brains, Behind The Stabbing Beaks, The Piercing Eyes, Now Giving Them This Instinct To Destroy Mankind With All The Deft Precision Of Machines.

She Knew That This Was Happiness, This Was Living As She Had Always Wished To Live.

A Dreamer, I Walked Enchanted, And Nothing Held Me Back.

When The Leaves Rustle, They Sound Very Much Like The Stealthy Movement Of A Woman In Evening Dress, And When They Shiver Suddenly, And Fall, And Scatter Away Along The Ground, They Might Be The Patter Of A Woman’s Hurrying Footsteps, And The Mark In The Gravel The Imprint Of A High-heeled Shoe.

Sometimes It’s A Sort Of Indulgence To Think The Worst Of Ourselves. We Say, ‘now I Have Reached The Bottom Of The Pit, Now I Can Fall No Further,’ And It Is Almost A Pleasure To Wallow In The Darkness. The Trouble Is, It’s Not True. There Is No End To The Evil In Ourselves, Just As There Is No End To The Good. It’s A Matter Of Choice. We Struggle To Climb, Or We Struggle To Fall. The Thing Is To Discover Which Way We’re Going.

Nothing Like A Cup Of Tea To Make A Person Feel Better, Man Or Woman.

... And Through It All And Afterwards They Would Be Together, Making Their Own World Where Nothing Mattered But The Things They Could Give To One Another, The Loveliness, The Silence, And The Peace.

But Luxury Has Never Appealed To Me, I Like Simple Things, Books, Being Alone, Or With Somebody Who Understands.

I Wondered Why It Was That Places Are So Much Lovelier When One Is Alone.

The Peace Of Manderley. The Quietude And The Grace. Whoever Lived Within Its Walls, Whatever Trouble There Was And Strife, However Much Uneasiness And Pain, No Matter What Tears Were Shed, What Sorrows Borne, The Peace Of Manderley Could Not Be Broken Or The Loveliness Destroyed.

There Was Never An Accident.rebecca Was Not Drowned At All. I Killed Her.i Shot Rebecca In The Cottage In The Cove.i Carried Her Body To The Cabin, And Took The Boat Out That Night And Sunk It There, Where They Found It Today.it's Rebecca Who's Lying Dead There On The Cabin Floor.will You Look Into My Eyes And Tell Me That You Love Me Now?

From The Very First, I Knew That It Would Be So...i Smiled To Myself, And Said, "that -- And None Other.

I Wondered How Many People There Were In The World Who Suffered, And Continued To Suffer, Because They Could Not Break Out From Their Own Web Of Shyness And Reserve, And In Their Blindness And Folly Built Up A Great Distorted Wall In Front Of Them That Hid The Truth.

Why Did Dogs Make One Want To Cry? There Was Something So Quiet And Hopeless About Their Sympathy. Jasper, Knowing Something Was Wrong, As Dogs Always Do. Trunks Being Packed. Cars Being Brought To The Door. Dogs Standing With Drooping Tails, Dejected Eyes. Wandering Back To Their Baskets In The Hall When The Sound Of The Car Dies Away.

Watch That Boy. He's Going To Startle Somebody Someday.

If You Think I'm One Of The People Who Try To Be Funny At Breakfast You're Wrong. I'm Invariably Illtempered In The Early Morning.

They Are Not Brave, The Days When We Are Twenty-one. They Are Full Of Little Cowardices, Little Fears Without Foundation, And One Is So Easily Bruised, So Swiftly Wounded, One Falls To The First Barbed Word. To-day, Wrapped In The Complacent Armour Of Approaching Middle Age, The Infinitesimal Pricks Of Day By Day Brush One But Lightly And Are Soon Forgotten, But Then—how A Careless Word Would Linger, Becoming A Fiery Stigma, And How A Look, A Glance Over A Shoulder, Branded Themselves As Things Eternal.

I Wish I Was A Woman Of About Thirty-six Dressed In Black Satin With A String Of Pearls.

People Who Mattered Could Not Take The Humdrum World. But This Was Not The World, It Was Enchantment; And All Of It Was Mine.

I Felt Rather Exhausted, And Wondered, Rather Shocked At My Callous Thought, Why Old People Were Sometimes Such A Strain. Worse Than Young Children Or Puppies Because One Had To Be Polite.

And I Don't Like Books Which Are Full Of Name Dropping.

...the Routine Of Life Goes On, Whatever Happens, We Do The Same Things, Go Through The Little Performance Of Eating, Sleeping, Washing. No Crisis Can Break Through The Crust Of Habit.

Time Will Mellow It, Make It A Moment For Laughter. But Now It Was Not Funny, Now I Did Not Laugh. It Was Not The Future, It Was The Present. It Was Too Vivid And Too Real.

Every Moment Was A Precious Thing, Having In It The Essence Of Finality.

Precious Things

How Simple Life Becomes When Things Like Mirrors Are Forgotten.

Boredom Is A Pleasing Antidote For Fear

I Thought Of All Those Heroines Of Fiction Who Looked Pretty When They Cried, And What A Contrast I Must Make With A Blotched And Swollen Face, And Red Rims To My Eyes.

All Whispers And Echoes From A Past That Is Gone Teem Into The Sleeper's Brain, And He Is With Them, And Part Of Them.

We Know One Another. This Is The Present. There Is No Past And No Future. Here I Am Washing My Hands, And The Cracked Mirror Shows Me To Myself, Suspended As It Were, In Time; This Is Me, This Moment Will Not Pass.

She Had To Live In This Bright, Red Gabled House With The Nurse Until It Was Time For Her To Die... I Thought How Little We Know About The Feelings Of Old People. Children We Understand, Their Fears And Hopes And Make-believe.

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