Pages: 559
Published: 1992
Rating: 8/10
It can be a bit difficult reviewing a book that’s seen as thee book of a genre; it’s not a secret (ha, see what I did there?) that this book became thee dark academia book that launched all future dark academia books. It set a pace, set a tone, defined a genre, and so trying to pick at it can feel disingenuous—how can a book that did all that be “bad”? Well, let’s go over some things.
So, let’s begin with the back-of-the-book summary:
“Under the influence of a charismatic classics professor, a group of clever, eccentric misfits at a New England college discover a way of thought and life a world away from their banal contemporaries. But their search for the transcendent leads them down a dangerous path, beyond human constructs of morality.”
Part One is spent making the reader despise Bunny, likely to get the reader to unite with the rest of the Greek group against him and see his murder as almost acceptable. He’s a terrible person, right? Insufferable. An unproductive leech using people for his own survival—sometimes indulgences a la excessive food and drink at the one or two fancy restaurants in the vicinity to the college. He is a layabout, a drunk, a misogynist, and a homophobe, not to mention he probably snorts coke and other recreational drugs in order to fuel his unproductive days. His death is not some great loss, especially when he says things like:
“‘And not’—he lowered his voice to a loud whisper—’not a fag, either, if you can believe that. Queers love to work in restaurants, have you ever noticed that? I mean, every single fag—’
I saw the back of our waiter’s neck stiffen slightly.
‘—I have ever known has been obsessed with food. I wonder, why is that? Something psychological?’”
It’s easy to hate him, particularly in today’s social landscape which is more progressive than things were back in 1992 when the book was originally published. And frankly that’s fine. At first, I supposed this almost caricature-like portrayal was because Tartt truly wanted the reader to sympathize with the other classmates: Henry, Francis, and the twins, Charles and Camille. (I think this is the intention, anyway, for readers to become oddly attached to this eccentric group and their plight due to a cockroach of a friend.) And this is because Tartt takes those first impressions of each of these sympathetic characters and slowly peels away the outer gloss, revealing the unsavory parts that ultimately put a spin on the entire story and narration.
Initially, this set up poses the reader with the question: Whose side are you on? But as we are following Richard, the main character and narrator, we start out on his side, his and the rest of the Greek group, as there are no real redeeming qualities to Bunny. Aside from his homophobic quips and his mooching ways, he also likes to passive-aggressively take shots at Camille for daring to be a girl in a boy’s-only club and having her own thoughts and so on. How dare she! Here’s another quote of him having a drunken rant: “Try and stop me. I’m not scared of you. You make me sick, you fag, you Nazi, you dirty lousy cheapskate Jew—” He’s a hoot, that Bunny. Did I mention the group kill him? They do. Are you sad? Because the group and the tone certainly do not reflect any remorse, especially in Part One. And who can blame them?
Speaking of the tone, it’s detached—there’s no real passion though the group’s pursuit is meant to be the passionate, dedicated interest in ancient Greece. This makes sense, though, as the main character, Richard, really doesn’t give a fuck. He’s just desperate to shake off the grime of his family’s business (gas station) and give his narrow-minded, small town parents the middle finger. The characters are often sullen, quiet, drowsy, and drunk which, all things considered, just reinforces their spoilt little rich kid personas.
I think the book could’ve been trimmed; I don’t mind a long book by any means, but there is an issue with the pacing of this story at certain parts. On page one, we, the readers, are told the main character and his friends killed Bunny; Richard ruminates on how “Henry’s modest plan could have worked so well” despite unforeseen circumstances that (we learn later) complicate their ability to pull off Bunny’s death. It then takes 226 pages (all of what is subtitled Part One) to reach this event in the retelling of events. On the one hand, these characters and relationships need to be built up, but on the other, Part One is drawing to a conclusion we already know is coming. There’s no mystique, no intrigue, especially when Bunny’s character is immediately presented—and not in an ambiguous way. Even as Richard recounts the group’s secret activities—the bacchanal, the first murder of the Vermont farmer which, in part, leads to Bunny’s murder—we, the audience, already know the climax. There, the writing initially feels leisurely in its pacing, which could lead to some finding it boring or uninteresting. I think trimming this part would be beneficial (one section that comes to mind is the meandering way we have to follow Richard through the winter break in which he’s too afraid of the group finding out he’s poor so, instead of asking to stay with any of them, he takes up residence in some beat up warehouse with this guy).
I dislike that the main inciting event—the bacchanal undertaken by Henry, Francis, and the twins—is glossed over. So, too, the murder of the Vermont farmer. This was the “action” portion of Part One that never came to fruition because we’re only given some vagaries in Henry’s retelling of events to Richard. That, coupled with the pacing, definitely makes Part One feel like it’s a smidge too long.
But also, why be vague? I suppose it’s because this event, though the catalyst, is not really what the story is about. It also helps bury the tensions that arise afterwards between Charles, Camille, and Henry, but still. I’d have liked a little more detail to understand what they were really trying to accomplish. I mean, okay, a bacchanal. A pleasure ritual. Sure. But what does that mean, exactly? How could four people really make a debauchery of it? I don’t know. I think it’s a missed opportunity in a sense, as this could have revealed certain things about these characters on a deeper level.
Part Two is truly the pay-off. Firstly, I’d like to say I appreciate Tartt didn’t try to convince the reader these were good people and we should like them. Readers may like them regardless, on a personal basis, but the writing wasn’t trying to fool us and that’s nice. There are certainly writers who want the reader to forget how terrible the main crew is with a little “Aren’t they so cool, though?” type approach. Tartt knows her characters are unbearable and she wants us to know it, too.
Some may argue the point. Tartt does give the main group a cool aesthetic: academics with eccentric ways of life that tantalizes those of us surviving on the mundane. Their quaint trips to the country manor, secretive whispers in ancient Greek to one another, black long coats, cigarettes, and philosophical musings could easily make one believe Tartt wanted the reader to like them despite their personalities. Come on—they’re just so damn cool. Except one of the major themes of the book contradicts that image completely. On page 349, the gang is loosely discussing fashion:
“‘I hate Gucci,’ said Franci.
‘Do you?’ said Henry, glancing up from his reverie. ‘Really? I think it’s rather grand.’
‘Come on, Henry.’
‘Well, it’s so expensive, but it’s so ugly too, isn’t it? I think they make it ugly on purpose. And yet people buy it out of sheer perversity.’
‘I don’t see what you think is grand about that.’
‘Anything is grand if it’s done on a large enough scale,’ said Henry.”
I fully believe this is a conversation about the characters and the message is this: Don’t buy into the ugly image simply because it’s fashionable. Tartt gave her characters what appears to be a very glamorous life that ultimately attracts interest and looks desirable to those on the outside (such as the way Richard is drawn to them). But they are ugly people—all of them. Not just Bunny, the obvious one. The entire group is rotten. People will be attracted to them, but as stated it’s out of “sheer perversity”. Our ability to overlook flaws—even dangerous and violent ones—if the packaging is beautiful is stupendous. (All the dark romantasy that trends so easily on social media comes to mind.)
This is a sentiment I fully get behind. I’m not saying Gucci is ugly (I don’t have an opinion of it either way), but how many people genuinely like Gucci versus how many people pretend to like it for the social status it affords them when wearing it? Who puts on their Gucci in the morning to look expensive and fit into a preconceived notion of what wealth and prosperity looks like? (Thoreau has a lot to say about these ideas and social constructs in Walden; I wonder if Tartt is emulating some of those sentiments here?) Tartt seems to be saying “Don’t fall for it” with this story; don’t fall for the image, the glitz, those who appear sophisticated and worldly because they can recite Plato in the original Greek. People can be intelligent and handsome and sleek and smoke cigarettes like film stars and be terrible.
Oh, a silly side complaint: what’s with the back of the book saying they’re under the influence of their professor? Julian barely has a personality, and when he hears about what the crew has done, he skips town and ignores their calls. He was the Professor Slughorn of his era. Likes his students as long as their little prizes to be won and fawned over, but a coward as soon as they need his guidance. (Not that they deserve it—just saying his character is rather fragile.) I have to say the back of the book oversells the story a touch.
I can’t say I enjoyed the ending; I feel like the story went off the rails, and not because the group was trying to hide their joint-crime from the local police and FBI. It became a lot of trying to get ahold of Henry and Camille, who’d sequestered themselves in a nearby hotel. Trying to see them at the hotel, but being turned away, trying to call them but being ignored. This, too, began to drag as the pacing plummeted to a snail’s crawl. Certainly after the murder, after the search for Bunny’s body, the media storm, meeting the Corcorans, the funeral, returning to the college, and all that happened in between, the last 50 or so pages (before the epilogue) felt like circling the drain. I could not have cared less about the Richard-Camille-Charles-Henry love square. And Henry’s final act? A bit of a yawn and an eye roll. The epilogue certainly didn’t help (but I’m a dunce, so maybe it was more meaningful than I realize; I mean, there was a value to it, but was it needed?).
Overall, The Secret History is for those who like a nice, slow burn of a story; it is not for those seeking adventure or action. Tartt delivers an interesting tale about how desperately we want to fit in, how desperately we want to climb the ladder or fit in with the rich, popular kids, without truly knowing them or knowing the value of the ordinary. Yes, the uppercrust is glamorous in their fine clothes holding their fine top-shelf spirits, but they’re just like anyone else: a human with faults and the capacity to do both good and evil. The cast of characters are self-centered, pretentious, and would-be philosophers who, ultimately, don’t regret what they did or learn anything from it.
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