Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I always take a good book with me on vacation. This time it was Rebecca, the suspenseful tale by Daphne du Maurier published in 1938, that I finished this afternoon instead of visiting the pool.

Lonna, my son’s partner, and I had grown tired of contemporary literature and decided to read a classic together. The kind where the action is chronological, there is one point of view, and the villain is revealed in the end. Most likely punished too.

I admit the book was wordy by today’s standards, but the way the author built on the sense of foreboding the heroine felt until the reveal at the end is as contemporary as it gets. Much of the story is told through dialogue. I clung to every word. And while there is no lack of descriptive passages. I tended to skip them.

I belong to a book club where we rate the books from one to five, five being the tops. I rarely give a five, but I would say Rebecca comes close.

P.S. For the record, since this book club has been in existence, I’ve given a five to only two books:  A Gentleman in Moscow and Anne of Green Gables. Two ends of the literary bell curve.