5/21/2023 0 Comments The Child by Fiona BartonIt was this fascination with hidden lives, I suspect, that led me to journalism seeking to uncover the truth about people became a job. It was the first time I had been faced with the revelation that we can never really know anyone completely-even, or perhaps especially, those we love. I was no longer the observer of amateur detectives’ cleverness I lived every moment of the tense, unsettling, and compelling narrative and was caught in the fabric of lies and silence that surrounded the real story. From the hypnotic first line-“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”-I was drawn deep into this tragic love story and its gothic horror. The “ta da!” of a heavily concealed denouement.īut it was Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca that stopped me in my tracks. It began with detective stories-Sherlock Holmes and his powers of deduction, and the shoals of red herrings in Agatha Christie’s novels. Then as I grew and started reading books from my parents’ bookshelves, I discovered the thrill of finding out other people’s private thoughts and actions.
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