This was a first reading for me of Donna Tartt’s debut
novel, which surprises me. Maybe not, given my preferences and prejudices throughout
the years. I was aware of it when it was released – who could not have been,
considering the fanfare with which it was heralded – but did not pick it up then – I’ve no
idea why, given that at that time I was turning away from the Fantasy novels I
had hitherto been reading with far too much abandon, and doing so with rapid
passion. Fantasy had lost its luster for me by then, it had become banal, no
longer the philosophical parables that Michael Moorcock and his like had
created, devolving instead into the shallow bloodletting spectacles that
appalled me. I was by then far more interested in novels like Generation X,
by Douglas Coupland, and its like. So, it does come as a surprise to me now that I
did not purchase this book when it was released. Perhaps it was because it
revolved around university students, and I was no longer that age. I didn’t
want to read about young adults when I wasn’t one anymore. Go figure. Did I mention my proclivity towards prejudice?
I have since set that reticence aside, if reticence it was – which it obviously was. Why? For a number of reasons. I was somewhat surprised to discover it was not set in the 1990s at all (its contemporary time) but almost a decade prior to its publication. One wonders then if I was newly drawn to it for nostalgic reasons, a desire to revisit the 1980s, which could not possibly be, not realising that at time of purchase. I did so because, all these decades later, the novel has a certain zeitgeist with the Dark Academia subculture. (What is Dark Academia? That’s another discussion.) Why were they so captivated by it, I wondered? Inquiring minds want to know.
I picked the book up. And Thank God I did. It is wonderful. A page turner. Its prose flows. Almost poetically. That said, it is literary. And complex. So very complex. There’s a great deal going on betwixt the covers, perhaps more than most readers might realise on first reading. Indeed, one must read carefully to divine the subtext suffused in what is said, both in the narrator’s remembrances, and the dialogue between the characters. Indeed, he is a bit of an unreliable narrator at first, a necessity in a novel that is a bit of a mystery, about events disclosed nearly a decade after their happening. It’s something of a Confession, a literary style that seems less in favour now than it once was. Richard wishes to paint himself in a good light, but also a highly critical one, confessing that he has “a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.” He is also tortured by guilt, declaring that “I might have had any number of stories, but now there is only one. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.” That is all terribly dramatic, but other than in this confessional form, he could never possibly tell it to anyone, could he. To do so would land him in prison.
That's dire, isn't it? What then did he do that is so terrible? What is The Secret History about? Murder. But it is so
much more. There is a great deal of Greek philosophy and theatrical play woven within: most notably Euripides’ Bacchae, and Plato, which is no
surprise, given our cast of characters’ major, the Classics. There are also innumerable
references to modern classic literature too: Gatsby, T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, etc...
Donna Tartt was an English Lit major, so it’s not surprising that there would
be. Write what you know, as they say.
I am not giving anything away when I tell you the novel begins with a group of student murdering one of their classmates. That's the issue, isn’t it, when deciding what to reveal when discussing a novel: what to reveal. To discuss what lies within invites spoilers; too much revelation soils the enjoyment of the experience. It’s a conundrum. I want to speak at length on this book, I want to give my insights. I do have them, some I’d arrived at on my own, others I’d gleaned from what had been written about it by others prior, and explorations made on the vast number of YouTube reviews posted online (read and viewed after completing the book, I should add). I won’t though. You can dive down that rabbit hole on you’re own, should you wish to, if you haven't already. Suffice it to say that Donna Tartt’s debut novel is not a who-done-it, but a why-done it, played out by a brilliant cast of characters.
That personae dramatis are as follows:
Richard Papen, a Californian of modest means who
transfers to Hampden University (Barrington University), Vermont, to escape the
life he was born to: poverty, toil, drudgery.
Henry Winter, the unofficial leader of Richards very
small community of Julian Morrow’s exclusive students. He’s brilliant by any
standard, and horribly naïve and ill-informed outside his interests.
Fransis Abernathy, old money, the supposed ideal of
confidence and generosity.
Charles and Camilla Macauley, the charming orphaned fraternal
twins that Richard is most drawn to from the outset.
Edmund “Bunny” Corcoran, the dyslexic jokester who
ultimately facilitates Richard’s invitation to this exclusive cadre of select
students. Also, our victim of murder.
And finally, Julian Morrow, the eccentric professor who
teaches out small, select group of acolytes. One might wonder why I bother to
include Julian here; he appears to barely appear in the book, but while his
presence is indeed sparse, he is always present – in fact, one might say that
the story begins and ends with him, he’s everywhere, and our main cast more
often than not ask “What would Julian think” throughout the story.
There are others, but these are the most important. Richard is drawn to these select “freaks,” as his fellow Hampden students refer to them. They are attractive, brilliant, cultured, suave, charismatic. He will do anything, in fact, to be counted among them.
But nothing as it seems. To disclose why would be to deny you enjoyment of this brilliant work. It’s funny. Sometimes awkward. Always surprising.
This book was very much a nostalgic trip for me. I could very much empathise with Richard. Indeed, I could have been Richard. I did not grow up poor, but neither did he, not really. His father owns a garage. He’s working class. But he aspires for more. Thus, university. Sadly, being working class, his parents (then) do not see the value of education. Thus, he has to make his own way without their support, personal or financial.
As to his hopeless longing for the picturesque, I shared it. I soon found myself embraced by tweed and overcoats after attending college (while, actually, if tentatively). They were paired with Doc Martens, not brogues, topped by baseball caps (most notably the Detroit Tigers then – D for David). I read a great deal – SF, mostly; not classics then (that would follow, beginning with Dickens). Few I knew read as I did, and I imagined myself more literate than most in my neck of the woods. I suppose I started down a more literary path when introduced to Hemingway.
I'm getting away from what is germane here: You don’t have to have a working knowledge of Greek
philosophy to enjoy this book. Nor do you have to have a love of Dickens or Gatsby or
Hemingway, or Homer, although you will have a greater appreciation of what lies within if you do read the Classics, Greek and Modern. All you really have to have is a love of reading. It is a
journey well worth your time. I do hope you spend it here. Donna Tartt is a treasure to experience.
