Stunned, they start talking and drinking together, until John passes out. By chance, he meets Jean, a Frenchman who would be his exact opposite - loud, extrovert and head of a large family - if he didn’t look exactly like John. He has no family at home in London, and his depression and aimlessness has reached the point at which he considers joining a Trappist monastery. John, the otherwise nameless narrator, is holidaying in France, a country he loves but in which he cannot feel truly accepted. It appealed to me instantly when I read the synopsis, and I wasn’t disappointed. The Scapegoat, published in 1957, deals with familiar Du Maurier subjects: identity and self, unknown territories, feelings of belonging, and spiritual questions. I can only marvel at her talents because I’m distinctly lacking in fictional output. Du Maurier made her own family’s history the subject of several books, wrote Branwell Brontë’s biography, and tackled the allure of time-travel in a convincing and poetic way in The House On The Strand. Not only does her life read like a great, enjoyable romp, we also share many of the same interests, an obsession with the past being one of them. I would love to have been Daphne Du Maurier.
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