Grand, mystical schools with spiral staircases that look as though they escaped a Harry Potter movie. Students in trench coats and leather satchels marked by a demeanor that is impassioned, yet solemn. Wealth at every cobblestone corner, and mysterious crimes sneaking up on the unsuspecting.
An aesthetic that has held modern media in a tight chokehold ever since it was popularized in the early twenty-first century.
Or, in simpler terms: dark academia.
Defined by elite education, moody atmosphere, and moral corruption, dark academia connects readers with a world that is quietly chaotic and melancholically beautiful. The stories that this genre has to offer are far from cozy; they reveal the wicked aspect of human nature that is commonly overlooked in other forms of media. Secret murders and sudden betrayals are as integral to the structure as the vintage libraries that readers romanticize.
Developing a slow obsession with the genre is inevitable. Where else can you grow to love the characters while witnessing their demise firsthand?
Perhaps it is the cold rawness of the aesthetic that so many individuals love. After all, with dark academia, human flaw is strangely honored.
Although massively known, this genre of literature and television is a surprisingly recent introduction to the creative realm. Really exploding on the internet in the 2010s, dark academia developed into a massive subculture, sparking debates and discussions among early enthusiasts on platforms like Tumblr and YouTube. For the first time, gothic styles and classic literature were being blended into a more contemporary style, available to audiences around the world.
Dark academia roots trace back decades before 2015, the year when the trend took full effect on Tumblr. Several older, foundational works, including Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, paved the way for dark academia’s success. However, it would be naive to deny credit to modern classics.
Enter Donna Tartt’s The Secret History.
Officially published in 1992 by Alfred A. Knopf, Donna Tartt’s novel The Secret History follows six students in the 1980s: the quiet Henry Winter, the amicable Camilla Macaulay, the lively Charles Macaulay, the fiery Francis Abernathy, the entitled Edmund “Bunny” Corcoran, and the protagonist, Richard Papen. They are a mysterious group at a peculiar Hampden College, a small, fictional liberal arts school in Vermont.
The Secret History is incredibly charming. The autumn aesthetic of Hampden College appeals to present-day enthusiasts of the pumpkin spice latte, cozy wool scarf, and brick fireplace. What better way to celebrate the chilly days than to pick up a book about a small-town college kid?
17-year-old Diane, a junior at the American Heritage High School, is new to the dark academia category. Even as a casual enthusiast, she finds that there is “something about fashion and literature of dark academia that just feels so sophisticated and calm.”
(Ah, yes. There is that mystifying calmness that reels people in.)
When The Secret History was recommended to Diane, she explained what drew her in. “I love interesting plot lines or cases in which the characters become mentally unstable, and you get to experience their mental deterioration.”
Told through the perspective of Richard Papen, the reader initially classifies him as an ordinary young guy: dismissive parents, new opportunities, and feelings of misbelonging. To many, Richard’s persona exists as something familiar and relatable. By page 50, you do not think twice before you trust Richard’s experience almost entirely.
In an effort to escape a mundane life in his small Californian hometown, Richard applies and is accepted into Hampden. Automatically, his curiosity is lured by a mysterious clique of students studying Classics under Professor Julian Marrow, a man equally as intriguing. Richard notices as they constantly keep to themselves, engaging in witty banter (exclusively in Greek and Latin!), and staying silently but ferociously devoted to their instructor — certainly not your typical college fraternity.
Suddenly, for a reason that is unfathomable to Richard, he receives a personal invitation to join the group. In the span of two pages, he becomes what so many dream of becoming: ‘the chosen one,’ a person that is selected by fate.
Richard quickly becomes attached to his peers, developing a versatile relationship with each student, and finally feels at home.
This sense of belonging is a careful masquerade. Underneath the late, starry-eyed evenings and sunset getaways and captivating lectures lie whispered secrets. What Richard mistakes for reverence rots away into its true form: suffocating obsession.
What separates Richard from this hedonistic and abnormal cohort?
The truth: very little, if anything at all. Although this descent into madness becomes apparent only once the chaos has ensued — when it is too late.
If there is something not so secretive about The Secret History, it is that the novel is a work of genius. More importantly than its beautiful structure and incredible characterization is its impact. The book led to an entire cultural phenomenon in itself.
Tartt recalls drawing her inspiration from novels like The Great Gatsby and The Talented Mr. Ripley. These classics show that identity and obsession tropes are not just interesting but historic. The Great Gatsby dangles elite parties, fine dining, and upper-class ease in front of the reader’s eyes — only to rip that mirage away. In a sense, Gatsby’s life was as purposeless as Henry Winter’s.
In The Talented Mr. Ripley, Highsmith takes a different approach to the moral debacle by painting Tom Ripley as a hero. Readers are entranced by Ripley as if he had leaped through the pages and into this world, and he nearly did when a movie adaptation was released in 1999.
Charisma and abundance are qualities that make people want to forgive: we are more likely to turn a blind eye when somebody can win our hearts. Trouble is not comfortable — cool confidence is.
Tartt’s novel did not invent these themes, nor did she try to. Instead, she revolutionized them.
Whereas Gatsby seems to be isolated in his hopelessness and Ripley’s story focuses on individual evil, The Secret History grapples with a group. Tartt does not shy away from depicting the influence individuals have on a person’s mentality. Readers also experience the contrast in the entire group’s characters before and after the unfortunate series of events.
Henry Winter is one of the most enthralling characters in Tartt’s work. Initially, he is regarded as the main strategist and the quiet underdog of his group; in an instant, however, power dynamics become muddled, and Henry solidifies control. Every word serves its purpose in Donna Tartt’s literary universe; Henry’s consolidation of power serves as a direct contrast to his own sense of panic. He may have possessed the group’s loyalty, but he also shared the brunt of their crime.
Whereas Winter is deeply layered to the reader, Richard Papen seems to be a simple protagonist…until you begin to hesitate as you turn the page, wondering if you can still trust what he says. Papen’s complexity lies in the way that it is revealed. He is an instrument that carves a narrow outlook for the reader in order to offer a false sense of control. Late-night conversations, sunset picnics, and heartfelt glances: all are experienced in Richard’s shoes. Readers feel Richard’s initial innocence as if they are another one of Professor Julian’s cunning students brewing tea on a foggy Wednesday afternoon.
Ultimately, torture does not play favorites. We see the toll of corruption on Henry. We see the toll of corruption on Richard. We see the toll of corruption on Francis, and Charles, and Bunny, and Camilla, and Professor Julian.
By the novel’s stunning end, we feel tortured, too, when we realize that the one we may have been rooting for was a villain all along.
The Secret History reels you in slowly. There is no single “aha!” moment where you realize who the bad guy of the story is. There is a gradual realization that every character, every moment, every word, and every detail was crafted to conceal beautiful rot — and it is absolutely devastating.
In Donna Tartt’s own words: “I suppose the shock of recognition is one of the nastiest shocks of all.”
If there is something not so secretive about The Secret History, it is that the novel is a work of genius. More importantly than its beautiful structure and incredible characterization is its impact. The book led to an entire cultural phenomenon in itself.