The only things I knew about this when I started were that it’s an adored classic and that Hitchcock won his only Best Picture Oscar for his film adaptation.

That’s a good way to do it. It was much less floral than I expected – it felt almost contemporary considering the 1938 publication date. I flew through it.

The book is difficult to describe without giving anything away. An unnamed narrator starts the novel by wistfully describing the fancy estate where she used to live. It’s clear something dramatic happened, but no detail is provided upfront.

Rather, she tells the story of being a younger woman, meeting and falling in love with Maxim de Winter, a wealthy older widower. His first wife, Rebecca, looms large in his memory.

They get married and things don’t go as planned.

This book kind of meanders in a beautiful way for the first half – the narrator is a fish out of water and seeing the world through her eyes is fantastic. It’s difficult to tell if she’s reliable – is she seeing things as they are, or is the filter of her insecurity making her imagine things? Her insecurities are infuriating and incredibly relatable, as she hesitates to advocate for herself or call other characters out.

Then when things turn, the book can’t be put down. The last 150 pages of this thing were a one-shot for me, keeping me up well past midnight. It’s full of surprises, but every one of them feels earned.

Classics are classic for a reason. If you haven’t read this, seek it out.

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