Help! I’m in the throes of what can only be described as a
“book hangover”—that space between novels where I can’t quite bring myself to
abandon the world of the book I’ve just finished to start reading something
new.
The book in question is Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. Yes, I know that it’s Tartt’s new release, The Goldfinch, that’s garnering so much
buzz recently. I’d heard so many wonderful things about her first novel,
though, that I felt compelled to read it before checking out the new one. As an
added bonus, it also came highly recommended for its strong sense of
atmosphere. This is something I’ve been seeking in my reading lately (see last month’s The Night Circus), so I was eager to give The Secret History a look.
My first impression: How did someone not recommend this book
to me sooner?
The Secret History is
a thriller on its surface—a sort of murder mystery in reverse, where readers
discover the murder of a young student at the hands of his friends in the
opening pages, and then backtrack to chart the course of events that lead to the
murder and its aftermath. Its real power, though, comes not from the murder
plot, but from the protagonist’s gradual decay as he becomes enveloped in the
turmoil of one of the strangest and most seductive friend groups I’ve seen
portrayed in a novel.
Narrator Richard Papen is an outsider in every sense of the
word. He’s just as out of place with his unsupportive, working class family in
California as he is in the snooty, upper crust, liberal arts college he attends
in New England. Almost immediately, Richard becomes drawn to eccentric
professor Julian Morrow and his exclusive ancient Greek program. Julian
operates largely outside of college jurisdiction, and demands that his
hand-picked students take classes only with him for their entire tenure.
Despite warnings about the practicality of these studies, Richard becomes
enamored with the cool, untouchable Greek students—scholarly and stoic Henry,
charismatic twins Charles and Camilla, shrewd and flamboyant Francis, and
pompous jokester Bunny—and he soon finds himself joining their ranks.
Richard’s
a little Gatsby, a little Pip. His clear desire to belong and his
self-acknowledged fascination with aesthetic beauty and artifice create a
believable descent into trust and complicity with the rest of the group, even
as red flags begin to emerge. Tartt excels at presenting characters who
intrigue and even evoke a kind of sympathy from the reader, despite the fact
that these characters are fundamentally rotten individuals. Much like a Walter
White or a Tony Soprano—though younger and often significantly more
angst-ridden—Tartt’s group of young adults will occasionally display the barest
flashes of morality or kindness or helplessness just at the moment when you
begin to genuinely hate them. Choosing Richard, who is not exactly “pure” from
the outset, but who experiences perhaps the most dramatic moral decline, as
well as having the most objective vision of events, is key in achieving much of
this balance. His excitement at being included within this exclusive group, to
finally rewrite his own life story into something more glamorous and
interesting, is predominantly what makes his actions believable and even
relatable (if not wholly sympathetic).
I mentioned earlier that I came to this book for the
atmosphere; and damned if that isn’t why I stayed! Tartt’s writing is gorgeous,
her prose lush and evocative. Descriptions of the New England landscape abound,
portrayed with the same sense of fierce and somewhat terrifying beauty with
which the Greek students become so obsessed. The students themselves are
wonderfully anachronistic. They dress sharply, their speech is eloquent and
old-fashioned, and they eschew modern pursuits for lawn games, cards, and
discussion of antiquity (apparently any history past Greek and Rome is
unimportant, as one particularly strange and funny moment finds the
unflappable, brain-the-size-of-a-planet Henry totally shocked to discover that
man has walked on the moon). While set in the late 80s, the book has a timeless
feel to it that I absolutely loved. What can I say? I’m a sucker for any novel
that includes bookish students drinking bourbon out of teacups.
While the third quarter sags a bit with some slow scenes (the
murdered friend’s funeral is dragged out for what feels like a hundred pages),
the final section moves quickly and the entire first half is absolutely
riveting—like, can’t-put-it-down-for-300-pages riveting. Some of the content encroaches
a little on “Lifetime special” territory (I’m talking alcoholism, drugs, abuse,
incest, orgies, you name it), but the writing consistently elevates the
material, especially in conjunction with the novel’s major themes. The result
is a strange hybrid of literary fiction and salacious page-turner that is just
the most delicious sort of combo I could imagine.
Seriously, this is one of those rare books where I’m torn
between “I wish I’d written this” and “Thank goodness I didn’t, or I’d miss out
on extreme pleasure of reading it.”
Simply awesome.
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