We hope the example of Daphne's family will encourage you to post on this webpage your favourite lines other than the universally well-loved opening to Rebecca. Perhaps you'll be inspired to re-read her books and discover other lines with a special meaning for you.

Virago Press has published almost thirty of Daphne's books in paperback with a delightful hardback edition of Vanishing Cornwall. These have introductions by established authors, some of whom have presented at our Festival and submitted their own favourite lines below.

If you have already REGISTERED as a Member, please use the SUBMIT form to send your favourite lines to us, where they will be reviewed by Ann Willmore.

"Your Favourite Lines" is based on an original idea by Collin Langley.

Dianne Armstrong
Jamaica Inn

'…Yes, I am a freak in nature and a freak in time. I do not belong here, and I was born with a grudge against the age… Peace is very hard to find in the nineteenth century. The silence is gone, even on the hills.'
Jamaica Inn, Ch.17, p.274, Virago (2003).

'There's no peace, Jem, in wandering, and no quiet. Heaven knows that existence itself is a long enough journey, without adding to the burden…'
Jamaica Inn, Ch.18, p.299, Virago (2003).


To the casual reader, two of Jamaica Inn's characters, Mary Yellan and Francis Davey, the Vicar of Altarnun, have little in common. They are separated by gender roles and authority, class, and social station as well as other markers of privilege. But these same factors make him conventionally the most likely of her rescuers. Du Maurier very successfully reverses that expectation, of course. Still, on the most fundamental spiritual level, both Mary and the Vicar have a similar yearning for certain qualities in life that I believe enables them to share sympathies.
In their long conversation toward the end of the book, Mary discovers the vicar's true character. Ironically, then, what binds both the vicar and Mary together though other values in due course separate them is neither the superficial nor material but a longing for tranquility, 'the peace that passeth all understanding,' in the words of The Book of Common Prayer. I wonder if du Maurier found the twentieth century equally as disturbing in terms of achieving that inner peace as the vicar did his own time.
Dianne Armstrong (USA).

Dianne published an article on Jamaica Inn in Women's Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal, Volume 38, Issue 1, (2009), published by Taylor & Francis (UK). Single copies can be purchased by calling the publishers. CL.

Sally Hing
Jamaica Inn

She lifted the sash and looked out. She was met with a blast of wind and rain that blinded her for the moment, and then, shaking clear her hair and pushing it from her eyes, she saw that the coach was topping the breast of a hill at a furious gallop, while on either side of the road was rough moorland, looming ink-black in the mist and rain.
Ahead of her, on the crest, and to the left, was some sort of a building, standing back from the road. She could see tall chimneys, murky dim in the darkness. There was no other house, no other cottage. If this was Jamaica, it stood alone in glory, foursquare to the winds. Mary gathered her cloak around her and fastened the clasp.
Jamaica Inn, Ch.1, p.14, Virago (2003).

I've always loved my visits to Cornwall and no visit would ever be complete without first stopping at Jamaica Inn. There has always been something special about the isolated inn on the moor and to me it symbolises the end of a long, tiresome journey and marks the real gateway to Cornwall, more so than the official county sign.
I prefer it when the weather is bad and love to be there in the heavy rain and with my hair blowing everywhere - it's all the more evocative then and I feel like Mary Yellan did on her first visit. The ritual is repeated on the journey home; always a final stop and a last look around before reluctantly leaving it behind till the next time. Sally Hing.

Sylvia Ruck
Jamaica Inn

She laughed because she must, and because he made her; and there was an infection in the air caught from the sound and bustle of the town, a sense of excitement and well-being; a sense of Christmas. The streets were thronged with people, and the little shops were gay. Carriages, and carts, and coaches too, were huddled together in the cobbled square. There was colour, and life, and movement; the cheerful crowd jostled one another before the market stalls, turkeys and geese scratched at the wooden barrier that penned them, and a woman in a green cloak held apples above her head and smiled, the apples shining and red like her cheeks. The scene was familiar and dear; Helston had been like this, year after year at Christmas-time; but there was a brighter, more abandoned spirit about Launceston; the crowd was greater and the voices mixed. There was space here, and a greater sophistication; Devonshire and England were across the river. Farmers from the next county rubbed shoulders with countrywomen from East Cornwall; and there were shop-keepers and pastrycooks, and little apprentice-boys who pushed in and out amongst the crowd with hot pasties and sausage-meat on trays. A lady in a feathered hat and a blue velvet cape stepped down from her coach and went into the warmth and light of the hospitable White Hart, followed by a gentleman in a padded greatcoat of powder-grey.
Jamaica Inn, Ch.9, p145/6, Virago (2003).

I find the book really quite dark but saying that, difficult to put down! The passage I have chosen reflects a lighter side to the story and one that shows the high level of descriptive narrative. Somehow this reminds me of my own childhood in a Bedfordshire village in the 1950's. I think it reminds me of the village events near Christmas time, not that we had 'hot pasties and sausage-meat on trays'! It just conjures up a really good feeling. Sylvia Ruck.

Sylvia is head teacher of Great Dunmow Primary School, Essex. CL.

Collin Langley
Jamaica Inn

The best things left to him were his teeth, which were all good still, and very white, so that when he smiled they showed up clearly against the tan of his face, giving him the lean and hungry appearance of a wolf. 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, Ch.2, p.16, Virago (2003).

Whenever I read Mary Yellan's first encounter with her Uncle Joss Merlyn at Jamaica Inn, my spine tingles. Collin Langley.

Stella Black
Jamaica Inn

Those who carried pistols now had the advantage, and the landlord, with his remaining ally Harry the pedlar by his side, stood with his back to the cart and let fly amongst the rabble, who, in the sudden terror of pursuit that would follow with the day, looked upon him now as an enemy, a false leader who had brought them to destruction. The first shot went wide, and stubbed the soft bank opposite; but it gave one of the opponents a chance to cut the landlord's eye open with a jagged flint. Joss Merlyn marked his assailant with his second shot, spattering him in mid-stomach, and while the fellow doubled up in the mud amongst his companions, mortally wounded and screaming like a hare, Harry the pedlar caught another in the throat, the bullet ripping the windpipe, the blood spouting jets like a fountain.
Jamaica Inn, Ch.11, p.190, Virago (2003).

It has always irritated me when Daphne du Maurier is described as a romantic novelist. I much enjoyed Rick Stein's BBC documentary to celebrate her centenary in 2007 and agree with his observation that she was far from being just a romantic. I trust that the lines I have chosen prove my point. Stella Black.