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.

'I adore Wagner,' she was saying. 'It's useless to talk to me about Italian opera. I don't know, Mr Lévy, if you know the duet in Tristan - those opening bars, that swell of mystery and enchantment…' He let her go on with it, murmuring 'Yes' and 'No' as seemed to be expected; but he was considering with some hostility that the virgin daughter of a man like Walter Dreyfus could only be approached through marriage. He pushed the annoyance of this aside for a while…
Julius, Part 3, Manhood (1890-1910), p.159/160, Virago (2004).

'Yes, Mr Lévy, I'm sure your reaction to Parsifal must be extremely interesting, you must have been astonished at such serious romanticism.'
'You are rather lovely in your way,' thought Julius, 'but it would do you a world of good to be put to bed.' And aloud he said coldly, speaking more to Hartmann than to her: 'I only understand two kinds of music. One, the songs without words or melody that my father used to play on the flute - he was a wretched fellow who couldn't sell a kilo of cheese without muddling the change, but he played like a god - and the other is the music thumped on drums in the native quarter of Algiers and danced to by little naked prostitutes of twelve years old.'
There was an uncomfortable silence…
Julius, Part 3, Manhood (1890-1910), p162, Virago (2004).

Here we have the manifestation of evil; a manipulative Julius hardened by an impoverished upbringing of brutal self-sufficiency. Now a very successful London businessman he needed a wife with the right society background.
In this dialogue between Julius Lévy and Rachel Dreyfus at their formal introduction, Daphne portrays a playful Rachel discussing opera with Julius whom she well knew had little experience of the genre. Julius' disarmingly honest reaction should have sent a clear message to Rachel. 'There was an uncomfortable silence…' What a deliciously, vivid, flesh-tingling image that those few words create. Eventually, of course, they married with disastrous consequences for Rachel and their equally manipulative daughter Gabriel.
Yet another example which challenges the myth of Daphne being just a romantic novelist.
A du Maurier fan.

Julius was originally published with the title The Progress of Julius. AW.

Then he knew, then he understood. It was as though something warm took hold of his heart, clasped him softly, loved him, murmured to him. He was amongst his own people. They saw with his eyes, they spoke with his voice; this was his temple, those were his candles.
They were poor, ill-clad, ill-fed, their temple was tucked away in the heart of the city, but they came there to be together because they all belonged to one another. Their minds were alike, they shared the same longings, their blood was too strong for them - they were bound hand and heart, they would never break away.
That was the Rabbin who bowed before the golden candle-stick, who chanted in his soft sweet voice. He turned to the people, and lifted up his voice, he cried to them, he whispered, he echoed the prayer in their heart. It was not the Rabbin only, young, pale-faced, who stood there, it was Paul Lévy, it was Julius, it was child and boy and man, it was Père's mind in Père's body, it was Julius's eyes in Julius's face. And the psalm he chanted was Père's music, the song that rose and whispered and lost itself in the air, the voice cried out like the music had cried, it pleaded and wept, it sorrowed and rejoiced in his sorrow, it quivered immeasurably high as a bird hovers, beating his wings to escape, it travelled away, beyond the gold sun, flinging itself against the stars, exquisite, trembling, a song of beauty and pain, of suffering and joy and distress, the cry of one who searches the sky, who holds out his hands to the clouds.
Julius, Part 1, 1860-1872: Childhood, p.38/9, Virago (2004).

I believe Julius is a remarkable book. I understand Miss du Maurier was about twenty five when she wrote it, and had a somewhat sheltered and privileged upbringing which makes my chosen extract seem all the more impressive. I've read that she based a lot of Julius on her father, Gerald du Maurier. I wonder what he thought of it! Jonathan Harvey.

Julius was originally published with the title The Progress of Julius. AW.

In Gabriel's hands and against Gabriel's lips the cry became a summons of a different kind, a call out of the earth, a beckoning, mocking whisper like a night-bird from the woods; and there was one jerky persistent note that started from a mere breath of suggestion and grew into a leaping, discordant rhythm, harping its way into the brain with maddening power - a wild, fantastic tune hopelessly unsuited to a flute, a savage ugly note, a jungle note.
…'You play the flute like my father would have played it if he'd sold his soul to Satan'.
Julius, Part 4, p.229, Virago (2004).

A favourite quote of mine is from Julius whose manipulative daughter Gabriel, often played the flute in a style and manner which distressed her mother Rachel but aroused her father. Rachel believed the instrument should produce music of intense purity like the unbroken voice of a young boy. Collin Langley.

Julius was originally published with the title The Progress of Julius. AW.