A review by screamdogreads
The Secret History by Donna Tartt

5.0

Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.

The Secret History. The book that is perhaps the cornerstone of the modern dark academia novel. A foundational pillar of today's dark academia aesthetic. The singular work most often cited as starting what dark academia is today. A book such as this, a swirling, kaleidoscopic masterpiece with a cult like following, is next to impossible to review. For what exactly can I say about The Secret History? Everything of note has already been said, only in a much more eloquent fashion than I could ever hope for...

What I can say, with certainty, is that, among other things, The Secret History is a dark comedy. Donna Tartt is an exceedingly witty writer, and here, she has crafted such a richly comedic tale that's dripping with satirical hilarity. Narrated by someone who openly admits to being unreliable and taken by a 'morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.' Perhaps it's this unique quality that adds to the possessive nature of this tale, the thing that allows it to take hold upon your soul.

This novel is wholly unlike anything I have ever read before, and it's unlikely that I will ever experience anything like this again. It's a powerful and hedonistic text, one that casts a light down upon its reader. The power in a book like this, is that it creates a multitude of theories and possible interpretations, each allowing an x-ray like glimpse into the minds of fellow readers. It's startling, really, what an examinatory novel this becomes. Though at times, it may seem it, it's not a nihilistic tale, seemingly everyone rejects morality, however, by forcing us to examine everything that meaning is not, it shows us that life is not without meaning.

 
"Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful we quiver before it. That night I wrote in my journal: Trees are schizophrenic now and beginning to lose control, enraged with the shock of their fiery new colors. Someone - Was it van Gogh? - Said that orange is the color of insanity. Beauty is terror. We want to be devoured by it, to hide ourselves in that fire which refines us. " 


Is this a statement on the chasing of beauty and aesthetic? Is it a criticism of these characters and their lives? Maybe. Regardless of what this is, or isn't, reading it becomes a very cathartic experience. This is a book populated by foul, detestable people, villainous, unlikable murderers, melodramatic beings who display an astounding level of ignorance. Yet, the terrible, skillful and artistic manipulation of this novel is in the sorrowful, mournful gap it leaves on your soul. That aching, empty chasm that becomes of your rib cage. How we miss these characters when they're gone, these toxic, murdering bastards. How we crave living alongside them once more, skulking around their snowy campus, dining on lavish meals. That's the true magic of this novel, how exactly have such horrendous, pretentious characters become so utterly charming?

In no way is this a fast-paced novel. It's slow, painfully slow. It's a tale that will worm its way into the gaps in your life. It's genuinely haunting. Tartt writes with such hypnotic prose that tenderly sinks its fangs into your flesh, only then, do you realize the poison that's rotting you. I believe that when we read The Secret History, we leave a part of ourselves behind on those pages. Such is its raw beauty, I shall never forget it. What a masterful, timeless and ageless tale, one entirely worthy of its status in the world of literature.

On the margin of stupefaction, as I was sliding off the steep roof of unconsciousness, something would tell me at the last instant that if I went to sleep I might never wake: with a struggle I would force my eyes open and all of a sudden the column of snow, standing bright and tall in its dark corner, would appear to me in its true whispering, smiling menace, an airy angel of death.