The Secret History by Donna TarttMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
I went into this book believing that there would be a moment where all the characters are revealed to be ghosts. I don’t know where I got that idea from, but it led me to read this book with ever-increasing speed.
Despite my initial ideas being so wrong, I am glad I powered through this book. I read the second half in an afternoon. I am overwhelmed, typing this, in the best way.
I would give a synopsis, but this review is going to be full of spoilers, so I would suggest not reading unless you’ve already read The Secret History. Those who have not, know this: the book is exceptional, it is everything you have already heard about it and more. Read it.
My most pressing thought, finishing this book, is an overwhelming amount of guilt. There has never been a fictional character I have wanted dead more than Bunny Corcoran. The way Tartt forces him underneath your skin is utter genius. By all means it is Henry we should want dead. If looked at on the surface. But Henry is the gentle giant (oh, irony), the scholar, the one who we feel for. This reaction is logical when we realise that these are Richard’s words. Richard, despite perhaps having a momentary glimpse of the man Henry really is, idolises this boy who appears to be from another time. So, his goodness is heightened until the reader must tear the book in two to find the actual, flawed, man. Put simply: it is good writing.
I put off reading this book for years, and I don’t really have a good reason as to why. It is exactly the sort of book I will always like, but I also think that is why I have been putting it off. Almost as if there was no point in reading it, because I somehow already knew I would be its biggest fan. And this feeling was instantaneous once I started it. The writing, the description, is glorious. Which is good, because for the most part that’s all this book is. Really, there isn’t too much that happens in the 600 pages of Tartt’s ‘Original Bestseller’. Two murders, that’s all. But Hampden College, the Lyceum, Commons, Francis’ place in the country, they all breathe and burst from the page until I felt like I had been in their halls for centuries. I knew The Secret History was good when, probably about an eighth of the way into the book, when I had all but forgotten about the prologue, Tartt so deftly mentions that Bunny will be dead in a short while. I blinked, would have gasped, and chuckled to myself. It was the casual way the mention appeared, in parenthesis no less, that kept me reading, now, not just enjoying myself, but in awe of the book I held in my hands. I read it in the morning, still in bed, and that’s how I know it was a good read. I haven’t done that in years.
I can’t continue a review without mentioning the cover, the stark white font, the Greek insignia, that slug line: ‘The Original Bestseller.’ It’s a perfect cover. I felt like every time I walked into Waterstones it stared me down, until I was forced to purchase it. I’m looking at it now, and I am so glad that I own it. It is stunningly beautiful in its simplicity.
I don’t know how she does it, but Tartt manages to allow the reader to work things out before Richard can, which is impressive, because Richard is writing this in retrospective, not as it happens. There is moment, probably about 10 pages before it happens, that I figured out (to my dismay) that Charles and Camilla are sleeping together. But of course, like all the reveals in this novel, it is not that simple. And you are horrified to realise that the horrible thing you thought you had figured out is actually much worse.
To talk about the characters again for a moment, because that is really all this book is about, let us discuss Richard Papen’s flagrant bisexuality that he can’t quite put a name to. Despite his statements to the contrary, it is disastrously obvious that he is a little bit in love with all his friends. He may comment on Camilla’s looks the most overtly, but he spends half the time describing how much the twins look alike, and much he likes that they do. And then, of course, there’s the moment with Francis. I think, without this aspect of the book, I would have disliked Richard much more than I did (because I don’t completely like him). He was just a fish out of water in every sense of the term, unaware even of his own self for most of the book. And that period when he practically froze? I couldn’t put the book down out of fear that he was just going to drop dead.
I am trying to think of what else I adored about this book. The wrap up at the end. The fact that they simply got away with it, twice. Save for Henry’s death of course. The “normal” characters forcing their way into the narrative. The time spent at Francis’ house in the country.
So yes. Naturally I loved it, as I always knew I would. I suppose I should now read everything else Donna Tartt has ever written.
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