The Secret History, Donna Tart (1992)


In anticipation, and then preparation, for Donna Tart's much awaited Goldfinch novel, I decided to reread her first masterpiece, The Secret History. During my college years while home for a break (although which, I cannot recall), I decided to pick up this hefty hardcover on my mother's book shelf after she had raved about the story. Needless to say, I didn't get too far (I believe college got in the way) but I had read far enough to know that this was a book I should finish. The words stuck with me, the image of the small, academic Northeaster school floated in my head and the clean prose as well. It may have taken me a few years, but while home for Thanksgiving this year, I picked it up again - and finished it.
The Secret History is literally about a murder (or two) but the story itself is about the unraveling of the characters themselves. At first, you meet these academically inclined, wealthy students whose interest and pure love of ancient Greek is unwavering, as is their respect and loyalty to their professor, Julian. Julian seems almost God-like in this novel, the pinnacle of truth and learning. A true professor in my mind, as I tend to put them all on a pedestal above the mere mortals below. While the main character, Richard, seems to flounder at first, his intrigue into this unknown world pulls him into the inner circle (his California heritage really won him points, as it was clearly a place of intrigue in the minds of the others). This inner circle is beyond Richard's wildest dreams and as he tries, and sometimes fails, to get close to each of the characters - Francis, Charles, Bunny, Camila, and Henry - he is always the outsider.
For those of you who have not had the chance to flounder in this peculiar world of Hampden college, by all means, stop wasting time and start reading. I will not give any more of the plot away, except to say that this is the type of book where seemingly awful things are happening, but the steady pace of the words and the characters actions seems to justify the madness. Even in the telling of some horrendous plot twist, Donna Tart's prose is steady and truthful - it does not shy away from the horrible but rather questions your taste of the horrible. Was the first murder really all that bad? Or was it just the end game of an ancient Greek ritual, therefore, it was all in the name of academic learning and self-exploration? You find yourself almost believing in this excuse and playing along with with the gang, in their inner circle, because don't you want to be a part of this too?

If I was playing the dinner party game with living people, Donna Tart would most definitely make my list and she can bring her pal Bret Easton Ellis.  I want her secret sauce for conjuring up such incredible stories (I haven't started The Goldfinch yet, but I believe all the hype). Must be that sweet, swampy Mississippi air...

Classicly New York

When I was in London, playing "abroad" yet again, I had a lot of free, alone time, something a post-college grad is not used to. However, my love of literature and my lack of education (yes, I missed class), brought me into the North Kensington Library one stormy day. Somewhere along the way from my flat to the library, I realized what I needed in my life was romance. I wanted to be swept away into the romantic classics that scholars quote and students begrudge. My take out that day consisted of 'Wuthering Heights' and 'Lady Chatterley's Lover', both of which I devoured. Thus began my journey into the classic novel.


My literary appetite has not subsided since moving to the Big Apple, but I did want a sense of old New York to be played out in a novel. And so, I picked up 'The Age of Innocence' by Edith Wharton. Archer, Madame Ellen Olenska, May Welland - I fell head over heels into their world of stifled desires, muted agonies, and fear of making a scene in New York Society. This gilded age of New York City society filled my imagination as I walked fifth avenue in present day, picturing the characters in their overcoats and dresses, making their way to the theater or to a dinner invite. The power of status, of family name, was so strong it killed any chance for excitement and drama. Yet, below the surface, we see our main character, Archer, flaring with emotion and fantasy, clenching his teeth as his mind whirls into romance and freedom.

I read this book feverishly; Edith Wharton paints a beautiful scene of these societal woman and their unspoken thoughts, their stubborn refusal to face harsh realities, and their absurd fear for causing any sort of scenes within this tightly knit play on life. As the last sentences left me in Paris, I drifted into a nostalgia reminiscent of this life.