#and i have sever commitment issues and chase one hyperfixation after the other.

[random-remzy]

My eight year old brother has watched K-pop Demon Hunters 5 times now-

this is not including the 4 times he skipped through it just for the songs.

He knows them all by heart now-

Even the Korean bits.

HELLO??!!?

HE QUOTES THE MOVIE WHEN WE WATCH IT- HE KNOWS THE FUCKING SCRIPT-

[myrrheart]

RICHARD WAS GAY, CAMILLA WASN’T MEANT TO DESERVE BETTER, CHANGE MY MIND: THE DISSERTATION

Hi. I finished The Secret History in October. Here’s the radioactive take I’ve been sitting on for two months.

In keeping and facilitating any discussion of representation (or lackthereof) in The Secret History, it's important to note that Donna intentionally wrote it to closely mimick the upper echelons of elite collegiate academia within the United States: an overtly white, heterosexual, and wealthy pocket of young adults attempting to parade as and/or speak on behalf of those who aren't.

[spoilers under the cut]

That being said, an all-white lead cast is not only appropriate but necessary, as it allows the reader to familiarize themselves with the intimacies of a setting and social crowd made previously foreign, either by circumstance or the deliberate smoke-and-screen thrown up by academic elitists in order to shield their near-archaic world and ensuing social norms from the broader, less-white, less-straight, less- wealthy public. All this is to say: The Secret History is written entirely from the first-person limited perspective of a straight white cis male and therein lies the social commentary. Richard, although to his begrudging credit as having been arguably one of the most moral characters in the entire novel, is still at fault for falling prey to The Mortifying Ordeal of Being A Man. He stays silent in the wake of Bunny's flagrantly homophobic, racist, sexist, and antisemitic tirades -- even when the brunt of this is revealed to Richard on their first evening out together. He regards Judy as simple-minded and coked-out and calls upon her only when it benefits him or furthers the plot arch in which he himself is almost too aware that he stars. He thumbs through the catalogue of women at parties like they're kitchen appliances, and when he's confronted on a notable occasion that he's stolen someone else's, he matter-of-factly evades responsibility, blame, and the kitchen itself. And, most notably, Camilla. For a novel so cleverly crafted from nuance and innuendo, a cliche like love at first sight seems almost insincere. And you'd be right in that assumption. Caustic, anxious, pessimistic, emotionally-detached Richard has no business pining after Camilla the moment he lays eyes on her -- especially not after allocating a measly half-paragraph to her physical appearance upon first glance. And ESPECIALLY not when the prior page was near entirely dedicated to Mr. Abernathy (but we'll get to this). If you really pay attention... All Richard ever comes to appreciate about Camilla is her outward makeup -- specifically the clot of honey-colored hair at her temples that he references several times. The closest he ever comes to introspection and empathy is when he laments over how "difficult" it must be to exist in a "boy's club." (DIRECT quotes.) When Camilla shows up at his bedroom door and reaches out to him about the sexual, emotional, and physical abuse she's endured at the hands of her brother, his gut instinct is to doubt her. When she shows him the evidence, it's anger. When she refuses to move back in with him at his insistence, it's to kick her out back onto the campus where Charles is scouring after her. Richard regards Camilla as little more than something pretty to look at, and the only reason he's attracted to her and values her beyond the likes of the Judy Pooveys of Bennington is because Camilla is in the classics program; Camilla recites ancient Greek in perfect memory; Camilla wears Tweed and comes from money and embodies the peak of the class struggle that Richard has been traumatized by since birth -- and she's neatly packaged into a petite fair-haired girl his age, just to top it all off. There is a reason why Camilla is the main character we know least about. We aren't meant to care. We are Richard, and Richard doesn't care. He wants and lusts and yearns after what she is -- not who she is. To him, she embodies everything he is supposed to want in life: wealth, intellect, status -- all things he's been shown to chase after to near ridiculous lengths. It almost wouldn't matter if she wasn't even a girl ooOH WAIT CUT THE MUSIC [record scratch] [freeze frame] Let's introduce Francis! Out of the Murder Gang, Francis is the one Richard spends the most time devoted to describing, most memorably on that very first day he catalogued them all walking across the lawn. And not only is Richard most preoccupied by him -- of all the things Francis possesses (good style, great taste in fashion, a dry, bland sort of humor that compliments Richards own brand near perfectly) Richard is obsessed with Francis's homosexuality. Richard is so hyperfixated on Francis's homosexuality that he vividly remembers the day , time, and place of when he'd rejected Francis's infinisemal advances, and then mulls over it for months in detail and is able to bring it forth at at the drop of a hat when faced with the HINT of another advancement from Francis. For an unreliable narrator, Richard sure is able to recall gay panic. In staggering detail. Richard is SO hyperfixated on Francis that upon receiving his suicide note, he BOOKS A FLIGHT ACROSS THE COUNTRY IMMEDIATELY. After having held no serious, steady contact with him after they'd committed a murder together. Richard not only drops everything to fly from CA to NY overnight, he also bears witness to Francis's (basically) arranged marriage and immediately following the blatant explanation and display of Francis's family's homophobia, ASKS CAMILLA TO MARRY HIM. In a last-ditch effort to save face, to bury his homosexual urges that have resurfaced after years of self-inflicted suppression, to convince himself that if Francis can stomach it (albeit barely) then so can he -- all of these interpretations are left up to the reader. One thing is for certain, though: his spontaneous proposal to Camilla comes right off the tail end of his visiting Francis in-person for the last time in the novel. Perhaps the reader expects there to be a revelation or a sudden spark of insight into Camilla's character which we have never before gleaned -- but there isn’t. And if that isn't a direct confirmation of Camilla's role not as a character, but as a plot device, then I would politely redirect your attention to how even her denial of Richard is soft-spoken, gentle, and ultimately kind; what woman do you know would save that kind of otherworldly grace for a man who'd repeatedly scorned her, advanced on her without her consent, and asked her to marry him in the middle of a crowded train station? Camilla is the male fantasy and the physical representation of what Richard should want for himself. Francis (along with Literally Every Other Male Character His Age In This Novel) represent a call to something darker, something taboo, something ultimately detrimental; Cloke and his drugs; Charles and his drinking; Henry and his penchant for murder (and sociopathy and control issues and... Yeah);  Bunny and his lying; Francis and his... It's not so much that Francis is the sole symbol of sin and indulgence to Richard: it's that Francis is the only one remotely attainable, because Francis is the only one that would feasibly sleep with him, because Francis is a homosexual and... is that why Richard spends paragraphs upon pages upon chapters mulling over Francis's sex life? Is that why 'homosexual' is one of the first things we learn about Francis? Is that why Richard doesn't even do a good job at convincing himself, let alone the reader, that he doesn't want to hook up with Francis -- a handful of lines before they get as far as second (and arguably third) base? In conclusion: the alternative title of The Secret History should be whatever the ancient Greek equivalent is of the colloquialism "no homo." But the Greeks sure did love their gays, didn't they...? :-)