Sarah Haunts
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Autism in Horror/Dark Literature: REBECCA

3/16/2022
the book cover for rebecca

Rebecca ((1934) Written by Daphne Du Maurier) is a gothic novel about an unnamed girl living in the shadows of her husband, Maxim de Winter, and ex-wife, Rebecca de Winter. The elusive vision of Rebecca, a vignette of perhaps the most socially-desired, ravishing young lady the protagonist has ever heard of. Throughout the story, the unnamed realizes that Rebecca is not only the standard she has to live up to but also a spirit she must fully embody. Masquerading as someone she never truly knew.

The creation of this book to me was absolutely brilliant. I mean the fact that we literally don't even know our main character's name amidst her own story was a mind-blowing, creative move that I constantly find myself thinking about while I create my own, boundary-less characters. Forcing me to remember that there are other ways, another set of eyes, or a finer detail that can tell a story better than the narrator. Better than the one living it.

I think what drew me so much to Rebecca when I first read it was, to be fair, a slight projection I plastered onto that sweet and trembling, second wife; she felt very autistic to me! Am I wrong? And If I am, do I even want to be right? Trick question. There is no binary way to think and you, my friend, have just got your pooh-bear-hand stuck in this honey jar of a post. Let this tomfoolery, along with joshfoolery, jimfoolery, and other foolery friends, begins: I believe the unnamed protagonist is one of the best metaphors for feminized scripts we've seen in recent history. I'll try to explain.

Though I don't remember the conception of my masking, or even its walking-infant years, I do remember some critical moments, pushes between the wringing out of the natural mind, and the collective spooning of cis-hetero, soup currents, encouraging me to rethink this whole gender thing - what does it mean to be a Lady? I didn't know, so I watched. Ballet danced behind a gaggle of them, posing at the times that they posed.

The way unnamed was expected to gracefully know how Rebecca just did things without a journal or a mere guide directing her to regurgitate ghostly perfectionism, spoke to my history with both my enamored attraction to the women that I molded myself after and the desperation to appear just like them; the way unnamed talks about Rebecca in the first half of the book speaks of a woman terrified to be in love with her idol. Falling for her haunting presence, just like the others, yet horrified to know that the pedestal that the others, and now she, puts Rebecca on, will be comparable to her. The pressure eventually drives her mad and the image of Rebecca and her, eclipses. Becomes one.

Or at least, that's what I had hoped the second half of the book would be like; I didn't hate the ending or the unfurling of Maxim's coldness toward his new wife! And It's not like the reveal of Rebecca secretly being a horrible person, doesn't have its own criticisms about toxic femininity - but what if it didn't? What if Rebecca had just been as darling as all the grieving friends and family had said? What could that mean for the unnamed and their inability to mirror her likeness? If she were the only one, truly engaging with a facade?

To me, it would mean a continued quest for a mask. It could mean a continued longing to be someone totally different, while simultaneously wishing that person were real, stroking them with the same charisma, unnamed had so carefully created for her husband. For all the people, waiting for her to step into someone's molded skin. The flesh, not really a good fit.

Rebecca, to me, could easily be an autistic tragedy. Or a tragedy about autism. Or a story about autism and its separate, not symptomatic, tragedies. Or tragedy of society, hating autistic people. Societal hatred of autistic tragedy. The tragedy of this post is long.

You get it.

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