banality in the face of tragedy
This Week In Reading
The Secret History by Donna Tartt
I've wanted to reread The Secret History for months, but held off until fall, since this book is so clearly an autumnal read. Though I read it in October, the 100 degree heat wave hitting Southern California kind of ruined the crisp, fall-in-New-England-vibe that the novel embodies.
If you haven't already read it, the basic premise of The Secret History is that Richard receives a substantial scholarship to transfer to a small liberal arts college in Vermont, where falls in with a group of wealthy East Coast elites that are all in the same, highly exclusive Ancient Greek class. Over the course of 500 pages, secrets are revealed, multiple people end up dead, and Richard grapples with class, beauty and friendship.
In the face of extreme situations, we expect ourselves to react in an equally massive way. But we have not necessarily developed the tools to feel and express ourselves on such an extraordinary scale. Faced with horror and tragedy, our feelings are not grandiose expressions of rage and shame and despair, but rather the banal emotions of everyday life. The students literally murder a man and their response is underwhelming: the ordinary embarrassment, irritation, worry that was already so familiar to them.
It is extraordinary how after a monumental event, tragedy seems to loom over everything, but day-to-day routines remain relatively undisturbed. Someone is dead, yet the Greek class continues to do their homework, smoke cigarettes, attend Sunday night dinners at the twins' house. The murder has irreversibly shifted the dynamic of the group, but they cling to the mundane, as though if they carry on with their daily lives, everything will putter along as it once was.
The Secret History is a strangely timeless novel. There are sporadic clues that loosely date the story; it takes place well after the moon landing, but the students still use payphones and typewriters. The school in the book, Hampden College, is a clear replica of Bennington, where Donna Tartt went to undergrad. The book feels so specific that every time I read it I spend the entire time wondering, did Donna Tartt murder someone at Bennington?? Who did Donna Tartt murder??
On this reread I became fixated on Judy Poovey, a girl that lives in Richard’s dorm. While Richard and his friends translate Ancient Greek and go out for long lunches at restaurants that require a suit and tie, Judy gossips about a classmate that might be bulimic, snorts coke in her dorm room and chastises Richard for not coming to parties with her. The trivialities of Judy's college existence stand in sharp contrast to the hyper seriousness of the Greek class. At the same time, her chatty campus drama reveals that all of their college lives are equally unimportant. The intellectual pretentiousness of Richard and his friends is just as trivial as Judy's tale of blacking out at the most recent frat party. Choosing a more somber, intellectual aesthetic does not necessarily correlate with a more meaningful existence.
I have always taken myself pretty seriously. Too seriously, one could argue, and I would not object. In many ways seriousness is a crutch. It is more instinctive for me to be reflective and analytical than it is to be lighthearted. A few summers back, I was working at a fancy art community in rural New York. It was the end of the season; the grounds empty besides a few staff members packing up the galleries. I was sick, one of those summer illnesses that knocks you backwards. I had taken a walk alone when my DayQuil wore off. Exhausted, feverish, I dragged myself back to my room whispering "...am I fun? Am I...a fun person?" (Now, out of my feverish haze, I believe I am a fun person, fun enough anyways, but these are the things that worry me when my mind is at it’s weakest.)
I was a pretty serious child. My family didn't have cable, and I didn't have a strong understanding of pop culture. Instead of attempting to participate in a conversation I felt unprepared for, I opted out entirely. Standing in Target, overwhelmed by lunch boxes covered in cartoon characters I didn't know, I selected a plain blue lunch bag. Instead of trying to learn the names of boy band members I had never heard of, I listened to my parents' CD collection of classical music. I rejected all clothing that had words or pictures on it. Afraid of picking an uncool option, I picked options so boring, so serious, that they were beyond criticism.
If you are serious enough, you don't have to worry about being fun. My goal this October was to be more chill. "How does one become more chill?" I asked friends, a question that has never been posed by an actually chill person.
The Secret History illustrates the pitfalls of aspiring to the aesthetic of seriousness. There is nothing so terrible about pursuing beauty and intellectualism, but to choose aesthetics and reason at the expense of joy and morality can lead to decision making that is questionable, if not downright dangerous.
Go read this book if you haven't already. Donna Tartt is a masterful writer, a compliment that I dispense sparingly. The entire thing is incredible, but in particular, her ability to set a scene and create atmosphere is unparalleled. This book makes me yearn for the brief months I spent in Vermont in the fall of 2015, makes me wish that I had gone to a tiny liberal arts college in New England and killed someone. It's a novel that feels like a novel; when I am not reading it I wish that I were.
Further Reading
If you liked The Secret History, Donna Tarrt’s most recent novel, The Goldfinch, is worth reading. I don’t think it is nearly as splendid as this one, but I love a good art heist story and it is still a great novel.
I don’t know why this book made me think of The Nix, aside from the fact that they are both thick novels that are very popular and really lived up to the hype. I read The Nix by Nathan Hill this summer and it made me laugh.