Application to membership: Daphne Du Maurier fanclub

Had it not been for my insatiable interest in the uncommon, the Gothic and the antiquated (as found in Jamaica Inn), I would have dismissed Rebecca without trial. I found its literary predecessor Jane Eyre unrewarding and as a rule, find plot-lines hitched on ‘other women’ devices’ uninspiring.

But this isn’t a dissection of my literary palate, it’s a request for membership to the Daphne Du Maurier fanclub, (and a celebration of sleep depriving work). The author’s knack for dragging characters like Mrs Danvers into 21st heads is why I read Rebecca in 48 hours. Prose of the kind used in Jamaica Inn explains why I overlooked the romance’s blurb.

And, though there should be a world of difference between the smile of a man and the bared fangs of a wolf, with Joss Merlyn they were one and the same. Jamaica Inn

Mary was no hypocrite; she was bred to the soil, and she had lived too long with birds and beasts, had watched them mate. and bear their young, and die. There was precious little romance in nature, and she would not look for it in her own life. Jamaica Inn

I was rewarded for overstepping my literary borders with the freedom to roam through Du Maurier’s heroine’s lovesick head. Although I couldn’t relate to the pointedly nameless and submissive character, the depiction of her bought of love is displayed so vividly that even the most confident tinder user can’t help but sympathise.

He had not said anything yet about being in love. No time perhaps. It was all so hurried at the breakfast table. Marmalade, and coffee, and that tangerine. No time. The tangerine was very bitter. No, he had not said anything about being in love.

Not only did the writer’s characters and narrative style allow me to enjoy Rebecca, the skill with which Du Maurier manipulates her reader through plot twists, saw  a 21st century feminist rooting for a wife stifling chauvinist. I’ve never agreed with the ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ idiom (where books are concerned), never judge a book by its genre however, was a rule I left Rebecca constemplating.

 

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Autumn fireworks

Summer’s heat left him something to prove,

Few audiences rejoice the retirement of shorts,

The onset of radiators or winters barren branches,

And so,

Autumn imitated spring with his display.

Auburn, burgundy, mustard,

Shades stolen from a child’s palate,

Dolloped intermittently across his tired subjects,

beguiled into a last hurrah.

Spring

In celebration of the reemergence of lawnmowers and the shaving of legs: IMG_0984

“Is the spring coming?” he said. “What is it like?”…
“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine…”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

“I think trees should bloom earlier in the spring. They act like they are on a schedule. It’s not like they have anywhere to go.”
Jarod Kintz, This Book is Not FOR SALE

Age perceptions in South America

In Quito we gawp at the ingenuity of Ecuadorian ancestors.

To the south, the endurance of dead Inka’s.

Ancient like wrinkled smiles to newborns.

 

The Amazon.

A growing galaxy.

Incomprehensible evidence of time,

wrinkled roots laugh at the antiquity of man.

Basílica del Voto Nacional -92 years old. Incomplete.

Machu Pichu- 566 years old. Abandoned.

Amazon rainforest- 55 million years old. Home to 10% of all known species.

(According to local legend the day Quito’s Basilica is completed is the day the world will end. It seems unlikely).

Dancing down Benavides

IMG_3130

Sound vibrations speed through Avenida Benavides like London 1 beds through auction. ‘Todo Benavides, Todo Benavides, Todo Benavides‘.  The bus conductors advertisement merges into an ice cream van siren on a council estate. Like the rest of its parts, his grip on the converted people carrier is lose; one hand wrapped around a metal bar, the rest of his body hanging from an open doorway. As they pass, passengers and pastries are plucked from the streets like happily paying hostages.

Posted in response to the daily post photo challenge .