Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier, is a book that I somehow had avoided even hearing about for twenty years of my life. When I borrowed it from my suitemate to read over spring break, I had no idea of the treat that I was in for. This book is a classic for a reason.
Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I am an enormous fan of Jane Austen. Therefore, it means a lot that I eagerly rank Rebecca with the likes of Pride and Prejudice. It is a novel filled with suspense, romance, intrigue, and that indefinable quality that serves as the earmark of all the best literature—that sense of wistful longing that it leaves you with, that desire to know more than you can ever attain, and the wishful thought that perhaps you could one day aspire to such greatness.
I can hardly say enough positive things about this book. It is everything a book should be; you can’t put it down and are devastated by the fact that it ends. Don’t just take my word for it. My roommate read it after I did. I left the room, and she was sitting in a chair reading. When I returned, an hour or so later, she hadn’t budged. It’s that good.
A Shattered Song 