When, at the age of eleven, I first opened a copy of Rebecca, I had no idea how important that novel would become in my life. Like so many other readers before me, I was transfixed from the first, mythical sentence: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. That book had such an effect on me that barely had I finished it before I started reading it again. I was under the spell of the “du Maurier magic,” her singular style, that famous psychological suspense. Before Rebecca I had already written several short stories—in English, my first language—in my school exercise books. Afterward, when I wrote other stories, I signed them Tatiana du Maurier. It was Daphne du Maurier who bequeathed me my taste (or obsession) for houses, for family secrets, for the memories held by walls. Each and every one of my novels bears her influence.
When, several years ago, Gérard de Cortanze suggested I write the first French biography of my favorite novelist, I felt simultaneously honored and nervous, but I accepted the challenge. I decided to follow in her footsteps, as if I were leading an investigation, traveling from London to Cornwall, by way of Montparnasse—because she adored Paris. This literary pilgrimage allowed me to discover how Daphne du Maurier wrote, the secrets of her life, her inspiration, her work.
I described her as if I were filming her, camera on my shoulder, so that my readers could instantly understand who she was. I studied her books, her voice, the look in her eyes, the way she walked, the sound of her laughter. I met and spoke with her children and grandchildren. Around the houses that she loved so passionately I constructed the portrayal of an unusual and enchanting novelist, scorned by critics because she sold millions of books. Her macabre and fascinating world produced a complex, surprisingly dark oeuvre, far removed from the “romantic novelist” she was unfairly labeled as.
This book reads like a novel, but I did not invent any of it. Everything here is true.
It is the novel of a life.