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The Secret History

Book by Donna Tartt · 40 quotes · The Secret History, Donna Tartt, Beauty

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The Secret History Quotes

“Well, it's not called a mystery for nothing," said Henry sourly. "Take my word for it. 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. That was attractive to me from the first, even when I knew nothing about the topic and approached it less as potential mystes than anthropologist. Ancient commentators are very circumspect about the whole thing. It was possible, with a great deal of work, to figure out some of the sacred rituals-the hymns, the sacred objects, what to wear and do and say. More difficult was the mystery itself: how did one propel oneself into such a state, what was the catalyst?" His voice was dreamy, amused. "We tried everything. Drink, drugs, prayer, even small doses of poison.”

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“I had a feeling of deja-vu when, the next afternoon, Julian answered the door exactly as he had the first time, by opening it only a crack and looking through it warily, as if there were something wonderful in his office that needed guarding, something that he was careful not everyone should see. It was a feeling I would come to know well in the next months. Even now, years later and far away, sometimes in dreams I find myself standing before that white door, waiting for him to appear like the gatekeeper in a fairy story: ageless, watchful, sly as a child.”

Atmospheric Writing
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“On my first night there, I sat on the bad during the twilight while the walls went slowly from gray to gold to black, listening to a soprano's voice climb dizzily up and down somewhere at the other end of the hall until at last the light was completely gone, and the faraway soprano spiraled on and on in the darkness like some angel of death, and I can't remember the air even seeming as high and cold and rarefied as it was that night, or ever feeling farther away from the low-slung lines of dusty Piano.”

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“I thought she was going to say, because I don't love you, which probably would have been more or less the truth, but instead, to my surprise, she said: "Because I love Henry." "Henry's dead." "I can't help it. I still love him." "I loved him, too," I said. For just a moment, I thought I felt her waver. But then she looked away. "I know you did," she said. "But it's not enough.”

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“The larger of the two - and he was quite large, well over six feet - was dark-haired, with a square jaw and coarse, pale skin. He might have been handsome had his features been less set, or his eyes, behind the glasses, less expressionless and blank. He wore dark English suits and carried an umbrella (a bizarre sight in Hampden) and he walked stiffly through the throngs of hippies an beatniks and preppies and punks with the self-conscious formality of an old ballerina, surprising in one so large as he. "Henry Winter," said my friends when I pointed him out, at a distance, making a wide circle to avoid a group of bongo players on the lawn.”

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“It has always been hard for me to talk about Julian without romanticizing him. In many ways, I loved him the most of all; and it is with him that I am most tempted to embroider, to flatter, to basically reinvent. I think that is because Julian himself was constantly in the process of reinventing the people and events around him, conferring kindness, or wisdom, or bravery, or charm, on actions which contained nothing of the sort. It was one of the reasons I loved him: for that flattering light in which he saw me, for the person I was when I was with him, for what it was he allowed me to be.”

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“At the sight of his quizzical, kindly face - so sweet, so agreeable, so glad to see me - something wrenched deep in my chest. 'Richard' he said again, as if there were no one on earth he could possibly be so delighted to see. 'How are you?' 'Fine.' 'I'm just going over to North Hampden. Will you walk with me?' I looked at the innocent, happy face and thought: If only he knew. It would kill him. 'Julian, I'd love to, thanks,' I said. 'But I have to be getting home.' He looked at me closely. The concern in his eyes made me nearly sick with self-loathing. 'I see so little of you these days, Richard,' he said. 'I feel that you're becoming just a shadow in my life.' The benevolence, the spiritual calm, that radiated from him seemed so clear and true that, for a dizzying moment, I felt the darkness lift almost palpably from my heart. The relief was such that I almost broke down sobbing; but then, looking at him again, I felt the whole poisonous weight come crashing back down, full force. 'Are you sure you're all right?' He can never know. We can never tell him. 'Oh. Sure I am,' I said. 'I'm fine.”

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“It seemed my whole life was composed of these disjointed fractions of time, hanging around in one public place and then another, as if I were waiting for trains that never came. And, like one of those ghosts who are said to linger around depots late at night, asking passersby for the timetable of the Midnight Express that derailed twenty years before, I wandered from light to light until that dreaded hour when all the doors closed and, stepping from the world of warmth and people and conversation overheard, I felt the old familiar cold twist through my bones again and then it was all forgotten, the warmth, the lights; I had never been warm in my life, ever.”

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