Du Maurier's words..

I'm currently in between the pages of the modern classic "Rebecca" by Daphne Du Maurier.
Its a lovely book, as most of the book buffs would know.
While reading the book, i came across a few snippets which I felt, that i must document because they are sooooo beautifully written. I'm amazed at how lucidly she has portrayed the turmoils in the mind of a woman.
Here are some of them:

She is on a long drive with her first love, who is driving. The protagonist, who is the narrator is an innocent young girl who is experiencing the excitement of her first love.For her, every moment is precious.

All I remember is the feel of the leather seats, the texture of the map upon my knee, its frayed edges and how one day, looking at the clock I thought to myself "This moment now, at twenty past eleven must never be lost" and I shut my eyes to make the experience more lasting. When we opened my eyes, we were by a bend in the road, and a peasant girl in a black shawl waved to us; I can see her now,her dusty skirt,her gleaming,friendly smile and in a second we had passed the bend and could see her no more.Already she belonged to the past,she was only a memory.
I wanted to go back again, to recapture the moment that had gone and it came to me that if we did it would not be the same,even the sun would be changed in the sky,casting another shadow and the peasant girl would trudge past us along the road in a different way, not waving this time,perhaps not even seeing us.There was something chilling in that thought, something a little melancholy and looking at the clock, I saw that five more minutes had gone by. Soon we would have reached our time limit.

Im sure these following lines need no explanation. Every woman can relate to them!!

I know I cried that night, bitter youthful tears that could not come from me today. That kind of crying deep into a pillow, does not happen after we are twenty one. The throbbing head, the swollen eyes, the tight, contracted throat. And the wild anxiety in the morning to hide all traces from the world,sponging with cold water, dabbing eu-de-cologne, the furtive dash of powder that is significant in itself.


Under the chestnut tree outside the mansion.
The newly married, young and innocent Mrs.De Winters with her husband Max De Winters and a few other guests resting after lunch. She is very insecure about the new place, new people and being the mistress of a huge mansion. Her only strong emotion is her love for her husband.


I wanted to go on sitting there,not talking, not listening to the others, keeping the moment precious for all time, because we were peaceful, all of us,we were content and drowsy even as the bee who droned above our heads. In a little while, it would be different, there would come tomorrow, and the next day, and another year. And we would be changed perhaps, never sitting quite like this again. Some of us would go away, or suffer, or die; the future stretched away in front of us, unknown, unseen, not perhaps what we wanted, not what we planned. This moment was safe though., this could not be touched. Here, we sat together,Maxim and I, hand-in-hand, and the past and future mattered not at all. This was secure, this funny fragment of time he would never remember, never think about again.He would not hold it sacred; he was talking about cutting down some of the undergrowth in the drive, and Beatrice agreed, interuppting with some suggestion of her own.For them, it was after lunch, a quarter past three on a haphazard afternoon, like any hour, like any day. They did not want to hold it close,imprisoned and secured, as I did. THEY WERE NOT AFRAID.