The Secret History

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

Richard opens Chapter 1 with this reflection on the “fatal flaw” that led him to pursue studies at Hampden College in Vermont, seeking an escape from his decidedly bland life in Plano, California: a community of “drive-ins, tract homes, waves of heat rising from the blacktop” (7). This longing for “the picturesque” also led him to join Julian’s classics program and attempt to connect with the five mysterious, illustrious students in the program. Furthermore, this reference to “the picturesque” foreshadows Julian’s descriptions of beauty as its own breed of “terror” (39).

“The country people who live around me are fascinating because their lives are so closely bound to fate that they really are predestined. But […] I’m afraid my students are never very interesting to me because I always know exactly what they’re going to do.”

Julian shares these musings on predestination with Richard when he applies to join the classics program. These few short lines eerily foreshadow the students’ murder of a local “country [person]” in a bacchanalian ritual inspired by Julian’s own teachings, demonstrating the perceptions that lead them to experience the “country” man’s death as fateful, even mythic. These lines also resonate with Julian’s ultimate response to Bunny’s murder when he learns what his students have done toward the end of the novel. With Julian’s statement that he “know[s] exactly what” his students are going to do, the novel encourages the reader to consider Julian’s own culpability and responsibility for the murder—after encouraging them to “lose control completely” (42).

“Death is the mother of beauty.”

In one of his round-table, conversational lessons, Julian expounds upon the many beautifully described scenes of murder, blood lust, and death in Greek classics, including “[t]he murder of Agamemnon and the wrath of Achilles. Dido on the funeral pyre. The daggers of the traitors and Caesar’s blood” (39). Henry—his star pupil and a kind of morbid leader among the student group—pronounces that “[d]eath is the mother of beauty” and that beauty itself is “terror” (39). In this moment, the novel establishes this dark undertone of beauty as a kind of mantra—which resonates with Richard’s “morbid longing for the picturesque” (7).

“Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves?”

Julian continues to expound on beauty in his lesson, building upon Henry’s assessment that beauty is “terror.” In this moment, Julian establishes his influence over the students and their desire to “throw off the chains of being” through their bacchanalian explorations—which result in their violent murder of a local farmer.

“You’re not very happy where you come from, are you?[…] Don’t worry. You hide it very cleverly […] The others really don’t understand that sort of thing, you know?”

In order to be accepted by Julian’s student group—which consists of individuals from more “picturesque” (7) and wealthy backgrounds than his own—Richard goes to great measures to hide his humble origins. He pretends toward the glamorous stereotype of a rich, carefree Californian, and his pretense is readily accepted. Henry, however, reveals to Richard that he sees through his false identity, and understands what it means to be unhappy with “where you come from.” This recognition—and acceptance—of his true identity endears Henry to Richard. After this moment, Richard implicitly trusts Henry’s judgement.

“I suppose there is a certain crucial interval in everyone’s life when character is fixed forever; for me, it was that first fall term I spent at Hampden. […] It is easy, even now, for me to remember what their daily routines, which subsequently became my own, were like. Regardless of the circumstance they lived like clockwork.”

In this passage, Richard details how devoted the classics students are to routine and ritual, holding a weekly group dinner and moving about their day-to-day schedules “like clockwork.” This dedication to routine supports Julian’s earlier reflections on predestination. Likewise, Richard contemplates the ways in which these routines remain “fixed forever” in his memory, establishing lifelong habits and preferences. This phrasing pointedly mirrors Richard’s reflection on his cooperation in Bunny’s murder, suggesting an underlying tension. In short, Richard subtly suggests that this tension beneath the surface of the students’ routines led to self-abandonment, violence, and murder.

“I wonder now that I was around them so much and yet knew so little of what was happening at the end of that term […] I wanted to maintain the illusion that their dealings with me were completely straightforward; that we were all friends, and no secrets, though the plain fact of it was that there were plenty of things they didn’t let me in on and would not for some time.”

In this passage, Richard alludes to a certain performative tension in his friendship with the fellow classics students, further developing one of the novel’s major themes: the tendency to believe the story one desires—to see only the “picturesque” (7)—despite all evidence to the contrary. This passage establishes Richard’s wishful-thinking, “willful blindness,” and yearning for affirmation, which Henry will later use to involve him in Bunny’s murder.

“The very colors of the place had seeped into my blood: just as Hampden, in subsequent years, would always present itself immediately to my imagination in a confused whirl […] But even that day, with Charles beside me and the smell of wood smoke in the air, it had the quality of memory; there it was, before my eyes, and yet too beautiful to believe.”

Richard describes the intoxicating beauty of Francis’s countryside Victorian house, where he and the other classics students spend many weekends together. This moment—“too beautiful to believe”—echoes Julian’s description of “beauty as terror” (39). This particular phrase also echoes Richard’s mantra from the beginning of the book regarding his uncanny memory of Bunny’s murder: “It is difficult to believe” (i).

“But one mustn’t underestimate the primal appeal—to lose one’s self, lose it utterly. And in losing it be born to the principle of continuous life, outside the prison of mortality and time.”

In this moment, Henry explains to Richard that he, Francis, Charles, and Camilla murdered a man while in the throes of an altered state of consciousness during their recreation of an ancient Greek ritual called a bacchanal. Henry explains the excitement of “los[ing] one’s self,” appealing to Richard’s own desire to hide his former identity and abandon his former identity. Henry also reveals that Bunny knows about the murder, and that he is nervous that Bunny will try to tell someone about it. Later in the novel, Richard recognizes Henry’s appeal to him as a strategy to keep Bunny under control, knowing that Bunny is likely to approach Richard about the murder.

“Bunny had an uncanny ability to ferret out topics of conversation that made his listener uneasy and to dwell upon them with ferocity once her had. In all the months I’d known him he’d never ceased to tease me, for instance, for that jacket I’d worn to lunch with him that first day, and about what he saw as my flimsy and tastelessly Californian style of dress.”

Richard explains the many small ways Bunny antagonized his fellow classics students, leading them to contemplate—and ultimately plan and execute—his murder. Because Richard’s greatest fear is having his identity—and his lower class—exposed, he is greatly sensitive to Bunny’s teasing about his cheap and “tasteless” clothing.

“What the Corcorans did with their sons was to send them all off to the most expensive schools they could possibly get into, and then let them fend for themselves once they were there […] Not surprisingly, this has inculcated in Bunny the notion that it is more honorable to live by sponging off other people than it is to work.”

Henry says this when he and Francis confront Richard, realizing he’s “figure[d] out” (163) that they murdered someone. In the ensuing conversation with Richard, Henry portrays Bunny, who has also learned they murdered a man, as the problematic figure in their predicament. He describes Bunny as a nuisance, pointing out his habit of mooching off his friends’ money. This dual appeal to class and honorable behavior resonates deeply with Richard, who takes great pains to retain financial independence and conceal that he comes from a lower class than his fellow classics students. Thus, Henry establishes himself as the decisive leader in the group, and Richard defers to his judgement about how they should deal with Bunny.

“Pur: that one word contains for me the secret, the bright, terrible clarity of ancient Greek […] a language obsessed with action, and with the joy of seeing action multiply from action, action marching relentlessly ahead and yet more actions filing in from either side to fall into neat step at the rear, in a long straight rank of cause and effect toward what will be inevitable, the only possible end.”

Completing his Greek homework after this charged meeting with Francis and Henry, Richard contemplates the word “pur” (essentially, Greek for “fire”). He explains that the word, in Greek, is filled with a particularly “inhuman” resonance, which he likens to “the funeral pyre of Patroklos” (200). In short, this moment reveals that Richard has already accepted death—the funeral pyre—as Bunny’s fate: “the only possible end” (200). This allusion to the death of Patroklos is later recalled near the end of the book, on page 558.

“In retrospect, it is odd how little power the dead farmer exercised over an imagination as morbid and hysterical as my own […] Monstrous as it was, the corpse itself seemed little more than a prop, something brought out in the dark by stagehands and laid at Henry’s feet, to be discovered when the lights came up […] it seemed relatively harmless compared to the very real and persistent menace which I now saw that Bunny presented.”

In this passage, Richard further explains the logical process that led him to side with Henry and to perceive Bunny as a “very real and persistent menace” (211). After all, the dead farmer is incapable of speaking against them, whereas Bunny’s behavior proves to be vengeful and erratic.

“One likes to think there’s something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I’ve learned one thing in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn’t conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool.”

Richard explains the complexity of his feelings toward Bunny even after he committed to the necessity of his murder. He reflects that “so much remained of the old Bunny, the one I knew and loved,” but that these tender moments were often those in which Bunny “chose to attack” (223). He relates his desire to believe that “love conquers all,” but explains that this platitude is an oversimplification and—moreover—“a lie” (223). Richard’s love—and friendship—with “the old Bunny” could not conquer the students’ fear of the new Bunny and his potential to reveal their secrets.

“What is unthinkable is undoable. That is something that Julian used to say in our Greek class, and while I believe he said it in order to encourage us to be more rigorous in our mental habits, it has a certain perverse bearing on the matter at hand. The idea of murdering Bunny was horrific, impossible, nonetheless we dwelt on it incessantly, convinced ourselves there was no alternative, devised plans which seemed slightly improbably and ridiculous […] A month or two before, I would have been appalled at the idea of murder. But that Sunday afternoon, as I actually stood watching one, it seemed the easiest thing in the world. How quickly he fell; how soon it was over.”

In this passage, Richard reflects on the ways his friend’s extensive planning—spearheaded by Henry—led Bunny’s murder to become imaginable and thus “doable.” Herein, Richard pointedly connects his realization back to Julian’s teachings, once again emphasizing Julian’s responsibility for cultivating their murderous thoughts. Finally, he gestures again to the uncanniness of the murder itself—“How quickly he fell; how soon it was over” (277)—suggesting that this short memory beckons to be replayed over and over again in his mind.

“I never realized, you know, how much we rely on appearances […] It’s not that we’re so smart, it’s just that we don’t look like we did it.”

In the aftermath of Bunny’s death, the local community searches for numerous scapegoats. Charles notes, however, that the local community never suspects the classics students simply because they “don’t look like [they] did it” (343). He thus suggests a layer of classism in the locals’ assumptive responses (a classism that reads as ironic, given Bunny’s own pretenses toward an upper-class identity).

“‘He would have wanted it that way.’ That was a phrase I heard many times that week on the lips of people who had absolutely no idea what Bunny would have wanted.”

Herein, Richard reflects on additional ironies surrounding Bunny’s death, including the idea of people who never knew Bunny presuming they understood him. Richard’s reflection bespeaks his cynical shift in perspective after Bunny’s death: He realizes he never truly “knew” any of his friends.

“It was this unreality of character, this cartoonishness if you will, which was the secret of his appeal and what finally made his death so sad. Like any great comedian, he colored his environment wherever he went; in order to marvel at his constancy you wanted to see him in all sorts of alien situations: Bunny riding a camel, Bunny babysitting, Bunny in space. Now, in death, this constancy crystallized and became something else entirely: he was an old familiar jokester cast—with surprising effect—in the tragic role.”

In this passage, Richard echoes the mythic heroes of the Greek dramas that Julian featured in his lessons, memorializing Bunny in “the tragic role” (381). Richard also speaks to the ways Bunny’s “unreality” enhanced his prominence in his memory—just as the uncanniness of Bunny’s death led Richard to reflect constantly on everything that happened in those few brief moments.

“With rue my heart is laden

For golden friends I had,

For many a rose-lips maiden

And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping

The lightfoot boys are laid;

The rose-lipt girls are sleeping

In fields where roses fade.”

At Bunny’s funeral, Henry reads from a Housman poem that Bunny used to quote. Richard remarks that his fellow classics students used to deride this poem as “sentimental” and “shameful,” akin to Bunny’s low-brow “taste for King Dons and Hostess Twinkies” (414). Delivered in Henry’s voice, this poem embodies the complex conflicts of class, aesthetics, and loss that the students feel as they pay tribute to the “old Bunny” (223) they loved. The text of the poem itself is a sad farewell to friends and friendship, foreshadowing the looming dissolution of friendships between the still-living classics students.

“It was the most important night of my life […] It enabled me to do what I’ve always wanted most […] To live without thinking.”

Richard confronts Henry about Charles’s addiction to alcohol and progressive mental distress, privately concerned about Charles’s reflections that Henry has misled them all. In the course of their conversation, Henry reveals that he considers Bunny’s murder to be the most important event of his life, and that he does not regret what he has done. He explains that his life was enriched by the sense of “power […] of confidence, of control” (493) he felt when Bunny went over the edge of the ravine. Richard realizes, to his horror, that he feels the same way. Unlike Henry, however, he refuses to embrace this feeling.

“But even in fairy tales, these kindly old gentlemen with their fascinating offers are not always what they seem to be. That should not be a particular truth for me to accept at this point but for some reason it is. More than anything I wish I could say that Julian’s face crumbled when he heard what we had done. I wish I could say that he put his head on the table and wept […] And the thing is, I had a strong temptation to say he had done these things anyway, though it wasn’t at all the truth.”

When Julian discovers that his classics students have murdered both Bunny and the local farmer, he does not respond as the students expected he would. He coldly tells the students to hide Bunny’s letter of confession, cancels his classes, and moves abroad, disappearing from their lives forever. In this passage, Richard struggles to reconcile the romantic idea he had of Julian as a “kindly old gentleman” (511) with the reality of his chilling reaction of self-preservation in the face of his students’ deadly actions. He remarks that he still feels “a strong temptation” (511) to lie to himself about who Julian really was. As in so many instances throughout the novel, romantic memory—lying to oneself in order to preserve aesthetics—dominates “the truth” (511).

“The business with Julian was heavy on his mind; it had impressed him deeply. I think he felt the need to make a noble gesture, something to prove to us and to himself that it was in fact possible to put those high cold principles Julian had taught us to use. Duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice. I remember his reflection in the mirror when he put the pistol to his head. His expression was one of rapt concentration, of triumph, almost […] I think about it quite a bit, actually, that look on his face. I think about a lot of things […] about the last time I saw Julian; about the first sentence I ever learned in Greek. χαλεπὰ τὰ καλά. Beauty is harsh.”

Richard interprets Henry’s decision to die by suicide as an attempt “to make a noble gesture” (544) that would reclaim the sense of meaning that Julian’s teachings were meant to uphold. Richard seems to feel value in the “harsh” sacrifice of Henry’s life for the “high cold principles” of “duty, piety, loyalty” (544). Richard’s statement in Greek—“Beauty is harsh”—however, leaves his ultimate interpretation of Henry’s suicide open to the reader’s evaluation. On one level, Richard’s quotation might suggest that Henry’s death was beautiful because of its very harshness. On the other hand, he might be speaking to the ultimate hypocrisy of Julian’s teachings, echoing Henry’s in-class assertion that “[d]eath is the mother of beauty” (39).

“What are the dead, anyway, but waves and energy? Light shining from a dead star? That, by the way, is a phrase of Julian’s. I remember it from a lecture of his on the Iliad, when Patroklos appears to Achilles in a dream. There is a very moving passage where Achilles—overjoyed at the sight of the apparition—tries to throw his arms around the ghost of his dead friend, and it vanishes. The dead appear to us in dreams, said Julian, because that’s the only way they can make us see them; what we see is only a projection, beamed from a great distance, light shining from a dead star.”

In this passage, Richard’s thoughts echo back to the character of Patroklos, who was earlier referenced in connection to Bunny’s (foreshadowed) death (200). In this moment, however, Richard connects the death of Patroklos—and the dream of his return—to Henry, whom he misses equally. Richard describes a dream in which he meets Henry again, reflecting that such dreams are like “light shining from a dead star” (558). Dreams of the dead are only “projection[s]” (558) of who they were in their life and in reality. They are romantic memories wherein one realigns their troubled existences with one’s “high cold principles” (544), shaping them into the ideals one wishes they were.