Helen Fowler Writer

The Secret History, Donna Tartt, Penguin, pp559, originally published September 16, 1992

The idea behind this site is it allows me to write about titles that are new to me, as well as revisit ones read in the past. The Secret History is a novel that falls into both camps for me.

I’m writing about it partly due to a renewed interest in coming-of-age novels after recently watching Brideshead Revisited again. Also, The Secret History is one of those novels that’s been on my ‘to read’ list a while. Years ago I started reading Tartt’s novel, but was busy with a demanding job that left little time for leisure reading. I’m embarrassed to admit I eventually abandoned the title before the end. These days I’m disabled and no longer work, so I at least have more time for reading and I’ve recently revisited the novel, though admittedly not in the same way that Charles Ryder does with Brideshead.

The Secret History’s one of those books I kept on meaning to read when it first came out just over thirty years ago, but for various reasons (mostly idleness) didn’t. I’ve now put that omission right and read the novel with real enjoyment – mixed with some pleasurable horror – while away on holiday in France this summer.

The book tackles a young boy’s coming-of-age via the recognisable and familiar format of him starting at university. From the start we learn with shock that this is no ordinary student romp that will simply leave our protagonist sadder, wiser and more cautious about how he chooses future associates.

Underneath their cashmere, linen and artfully-dishevelled tweed, these guys turn out to be full-blooded killers. They’re involved in the kind of brutality that goes well beyond the usual fresher capers involving regrettable choices of partner, essay crises, hangovers and cash shortages.

I’m left in awe of how skilfully Donna Tartt paces the narrative.
We know from the opening paragraphs that someone dies, as well as who he is. It’s the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of the murder that keeps us reading.

Perhaps one of the biggest surprises on coming back to the book after a long gap is there aren’t any mobile phones. We’re back in the dark ages of the early nineties here; these guys are queueing up for pay phones and counting out loose change. 

Otherwise, campus life c. 1992 is pretty much what I vaguely remember from my own university time in England in the late eighties. Except more violent. And more evil. Much more evil. 

One of the biggest achievements of a complexly wrought novel is how believable Tartt makes the cruelty. At the same time as surprising us with a series of unexpected twists. She’s a brilliant writer, it’s no wonder The Secret History has endured so well. 

It’s an acute, disturbing study of gilded youth, recognisable to readers even when it’s happening on the East Coast of America, thousands of miles from home. The lure of supposedly sophisticated classmates rings warning bells for all too many of us. So does the disappointing banality of more pedestrian, duller students. 

We know what happens from the off. A student, Bunny Corcoran, has been murdered. But it’s the how and the why that keep us reading for almost 600 pages. 

Tartt creates characters that are complex and believable. Bunny can be a sexist arse who treats his supposed friends with contempt. Yet his father weeps at news of the boy’s death, and we feel for him in his grief.

Throughout, there’s an odd sense of being removed from normal human morality. As if riches, learning, good looks and an endless supply of cashmere scarves put them on a different moral plain to the rest of humanity. 

It’s a relief to discover that the kids’ evil does result in consequences for all involved. Ultimately, the book takes an old-fashioned (and, to me, welcome) view of morality, showing that sin comes at a terrible price to everyone who commits it, no matter how clever, wealthy, connected or beautiful they may be. No amount of pastel-coloured cashmere can cover up evil, Tartt shows us, and Bunny isn’t the only one of the group whose life is destroyed by their criminality. Deservedly a classic.