Dame Daphne du Maurier, Lady Browning, DBE (/duː ˈmɒrieɪ/; 13 May 1907 – 19 April 1989) was an English author and playwright.
The trouble is, walking in Venice becomes compulsive once you start. Just over the next bridge, you say, and then the next one beckons.
Boredom is a pleasing antidote for fear
I believe there is a theory that men and women emerge finer and stronger after suffering, an that to advance in this or any world we must endure ordeal by fire. " (From Rebecca)
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.
If there’s one thing that makes a man sick, it’s to have his ale poured out of an ugly hand.
You had to endure something yourself before it touched you.
The road to Manderley lay ahead. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black. But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.
there's something about Paris that gives you a mental slap all the time, and you can't just sit still and do nothing. You've got to work, to keep up with the pace, the sting in the atmosphere.
It wouldn't make for sanity would it, living with the devil.
No, Mary had no illusions about romance. Falling in love was a pretty name for it, that was all.
What about the hero of The House on the Strand? What did it mean when he dropped the telephone at the end of the book? I don't really know, but I rather think he was going to be paralysed for life. Don't you?
. . . and through it all and afterwards they would be together, making their own world where nothing mattered but the things they could give to one another, the loveliness, the silence, and the peace.
I felt rather exhausted, and wondered, rather shocked at my callous thought, why old people were sometimes such a strain. Worse than young children or puppies because one had to be polite.
We know one another. This is the present. There is no past and no future. Here I am washing my hands, and the cracked mirror shows me to myself, suspended as it were, in time; this is me, this moment will not pass.
A bad workman blames his tools.
We are all ghosts of yesterday, and the phantom of tomorrow awaits us alike in sunshine or in shadow, dimly perceived at times, never entirely lost.
There is no going back in life. There is no return. No second chance.
I wish I was a woman of about thirty-six dressed in black satin with a string of pearls.
People who mattered could not take the humdrum world. But this was not the world, it was enchantment; and all of it was mine.
I had build up false pictures in my mind and sat before them. I had never had the courage to demand the truth.