Reviews Revisited – The Secret History

This is the script from my latest podcast episode – you can find the recording here.


Hello and welcome to Resurrected Reviews Revisited, part of the Will You Still Love It Tomorrow podcast. I’m Annie and, in each Reviews episode, I pick something I’ve reviewed some time since 2005, reread or rewatch it, and then compare my reactions. Fair warning: there will be spoilers.


This month, my pick is The Secret History by Donna Tartt.


Before revisiting it, my recollections (which may or may not be completely wrong) are as follows:

It’s a book that was published, I want to say, in the 90s? And it’s one that people talk about as having a really shocking twist – which I don’t remember at all. In fact, I remember very little about this book, other than that it’s about a group of university students who do something terrible that has repercussions for their later lives. And I also think I read it about ten or twelve years ago and really disliked it. Hmmm… So, why am I doing this again?


Looking up the book now, I discover it was actually written in 1992, so I was right about that at least… It’s from the perspective of Richard, who goes to a small college in Vermont and is attracted to a group of elitist Classics students. He persuades their charismatic tutor to let him join their classes and therefore gets wrapped up in events after the group kills a farmer during an attempt at holding a Dionysian bacchanal. The only other member of group not present for this ritual is Bunny, who threatens to inform the police when he finds out about it later. So, the other murder him too, and the rest of the book is about how they each deal with the aftermath.


Anyway, here are my detailed thoughts on rereading this book in 2024… I decided I want these solo episodes to be at least 15 minutes long, but was worried I wouldn’t have enough to say about a single book to make that length. This shouldn’t have been a concern, since this script is way longer than I intended! So, buckle up, listeners, we’re going in…

My first thought was – wow, that’s a big book! It’s 630 pages with quite small type, so perhaps not the best idea for my first foray back into revisiting reviews! I’m also not remotely claiming to be any kind of authority on books, or that my thoughts as I read them are profound in any way.

The opening line was immediately familiar, but perhaps more because it’s one of those used for quiz questions on occasion than because I remembered it from reading the book before.

“The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.”

It occurred to me after finishing the book that this is pure clickbait, since their situation is never really grave, as nobody actually suspects Bunny was murdered, so they’re not really in any danger from the authorities at any point.

The book has a classic structure – a prologue that introduces the shocking detail that the narrator and his friends have committed a murder – and then it goes back in time for a long, slow buildup back to that point in the story. I assume it’s remembering this structure (which is often used in thrillers) that made me also think The Secret History was pacy and plot-driven – when it’s exactly the opposite – so I’m already questioning my sanity – because what do we have to base our reality on but our memories? And my memories of this book are absolute nonsense…

The prologue gives no information at all about the narrator – no name, age, gender – nothing, which also makes it hard to latch on to them as a character or form any opinions about them. Though all of those things are given immediately on the first page of chapter one, so at least it doesn’t take long to get them. It’s interesting for a female author to write in the first person from a male point of view.

The language is quite pretentious, but in a way that appealed to me (as well as being vividly descriptive) – though it seems out of keeping with the protagonist, whose background is very different to the typical liberal arts college type student you might imagine – his father runs a gas station and his mother answers the phone in a factory. That said, the narrative is being written quite a few years in the future from the events being described, after he’s spent a lot of time as a classics student, so I suppose the regular smattering of Latin and overblown sentence structure makes sense from that perspective.

The initial presentation of the five Greek students – Henry, Francis, Charles, Camilla and Bunny is very effective in showing them as a group to aspire to be a part of. Richard’s fascination with them is very credible – and I love the image when he finally makes contact of characters in a favourite painting suddenly coming to life to speak to him. 

Of course, everything is overshadowed by the knowledge that the other four and Richard conspire to murder Bunny before too long, which adds a definite tension to the otherwise largely mundane narrative. It’s also lent an almost dreamlike quality by the atmosphere of the small, archaic college and Julian Morrow’s even smaller, oh-so-exclusive group of students. It’s all very romantic and mysterious, which is at odds with the inevitable violence.

First major red flags – when Julian says he’ll take Richard on as a student, he also tells Richard he will need to switch to Julian as his student counsellor and drop most of his other classes because he’ll be taking four or five classes per term with Julian – so Richard is immediately almost completely cut off from any society other than Julian and his little group.

The narrator’s apparent awareness of this is rather baldly stated: “I was slightly giddy with the force of his personality but the extremism of the offer was appealing as well.”

Once Richard starts attending the classes, I was transported so vividly back to my own university years, when Professor Wordsworth used to make us sit on the floor in a circle around a life-size bust of his namesake poet, which sat on a mock-stone plinth surrounded by daffodils. I have to admit I related to Richard quite a bit, feeling inferior in the company of the beautiful people, who were erudite and eloquent and everything I wanted to be at the time.

Overall, though, the sense of foreboding and the significance laid upon everything by the knowledge of the eventual outcome are rather heavy-handed. It’s all presented as extremely portentous, but I would say it’s overdone.

But some of the imagery is amazing:

“I almost bumped into Dr Roland coming in the door. At first he didn’t seem to know who I was. But just when I thought I was going to get away, the creaky machinery of his face began to grind and a cardboard dawn of recognition was lowered, with jerks, from the dusty proscenium.”

Bunny does seem pretty appalling on first proper introduction – he takes Richard out to lunch and is presented as boorish, bigoted, self-important and crass, continually expressing offensive views and then trying to land Richard with the excessive bill after previously telling him he would pay. But his behaviour allows the narrative to show Henry and the twins in a much more sympathetic light, as Henry rescues Richard from the restaurant and apologises for Bunny’s actions, while the twins later invite Richard to dinner at their house after connecting over the incident. Bunny, however, is an established part of the group, and Richard is not, so he remains on the outside, while Bunny continues to be tolerated.

Once Richard attends the first weekend away at Francis’ country house and becomes part of the group, there’s a lovely bit where he talks about how the rest of them were as bewildered by him as he was by them – it’s a very good exploration of making erroneous assumptions about what other people are thinking.

And then there are moments where the significance of the murder is completely undermined:

“Up until the end where was always, always, Sunday-night dinner at Charles and Camilla’s, except on the evening of the murder itself, when no one felt much like eating and it was postponed until Monday.”

Wow – after pushing one of their close-knit group off a cliff, they felt compelled to delay their usual weekly dinner by a whole day!

When Richard talks about getting to know them better, he mentions growing closer to them each individually and described what activities he does with them – but Bunny is never presented in a good light and it doesn’t say anything about Richard growing to like him, as it does with the others.

The murder tease notwithstanding, there’s quite a lot of heavy ‘little did I know’ foreboding about other things – which is a common flaw in narratives that are written as if the viewpoint character is telling the story to someone after the fact, and this usually elicits some eye rolling from me. I feel, if you have to keep drawing the reader on with blatantly stated promises of shocks to come, you’re not giving the story enough credit to be its own best advocate.

The tension in Richard’s existence – between the fabrication that his background matches those of the other students (rich, carefree, not bothered by financial worries or concerns about what they’ll do after they graduate) and his actual circumstances (needing to work over the holidays to support his studies, not wanted back home by his parents) is well portrayed.

It kind of reminds me of a cross between the first half of Brideshead Revisited (with the dreamy, idealised college existence and the slightly unhealthy friendship between young men of different stations) – and The Talented Mr Ripley, with the sinister undertones and a protagonist pretending to be rich when he isn’t.

Then, at pg 150, it suddenly picks up the pace and mystery with Richard discovering that the twins, Henry and Francis are planning a one-way trip to Argentina – and, eventually, after that all falls through, Henry reveals that they’ve been trying to achieve Dionsyiac frenzy by holding bacchanals and that they accidently killed someone during one of these incidents. But it’s all told in a massive speech by Henry after the fact and the pace stops dead again, while the recitation of the whole series of events takes 50 pages. Plus, it becomes clear this all happened four months before, so they only start acting weird and being concerned about it several months later when they think they’re going to get caught, not because of the death itself. Which doesn’t make them very sympathetic… But then I suppose they’re not meant to be, despite Richard’s fascination with them.

Still, though, the elitist attitude is a bit much:

“It’s a terrible thing, what we did,” said Francis abruptly. “I mean, this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It’s a shame. I feel bad about it.” 

It also seems odd that the viewpoint character isn’t even there for the inciting incident of the whole book and is just told about it four months afterwards. Events from that time suddenly seem more significant to him, but we haven’t been told about any of them when they happened, so it all feels very remote and contrived.

On top of that, I was previously under the impression that the buildup to why they add Bunny to the body count went on for most of the book, but it turns out we find out the motivation behind it by pg 200, and it’s because they’re worried he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut about the other death after he finds out about it. I also remembered Julian leading the bacchanal experiments, but that doesn’t seem to be the case – I thought it was about a cult of personality with Julian at its centre, demonstrating how dangerous it was for young, impressionable students to be so completely under the influence of one very charismatic teacher – but he’s actually barely in the book at all.

Sidebar – why do the chapters have to be so long??? I hate breaking off reading when it’s not the end of a chapter, but that’s made rather difficult when the chapters are 40 or 50 pages long, with some of them over 100 pages…

The more we get to see and hear about Bunny, the more I wondered why any of the others were friends with him in the first place – Richard talks about them all being ‘fond of one another’, including Bunny, but I can’t see why on earth they would be. Also it’s unclear why Julian took Bunny on as a student, when he’s apparently far behind where even Richard was at the start of the book, and doesn’t actually have the money to back up his place in the elite tier of society, either. It’s also interesting to me that, while it’s true that we’re not meant to like or be sympathetic towards the rest of the group, Bunny is by far the worst of them, in terms of attitudes and behaviour. I’m not saying he deserves to be killed, but still…

It initially seemed impossible to me that the situation, as it stands once Bunny also knows about the death of the farmer, could carry on so long without coming to a head. But then, it occurred to me that people maintain a continuing existence in seemingly untenable circumstances all the time, so it’s actually quite realistic. It does make for quite a torturous narrative in a fiction book in some respects, though.

And then, the murder actually happens at almost exactly the halfway point and all bets are off! Leaving me wondering what on earth the rest of the book was about???

It was around this point, when Richard starts talking about the repercussions and how years have passed between the murder and his recounting of it, that I realised it’s not specified when the events at the college are set, or how much time has passed. The book was published in 1992, which I assume forms the ‘present’ of the narrative from Richard’s perspective, but it’s not clear how long ago the murder was – other than ‘years’.

Weirdly, once the murder is past, the pace picks up quite a bit, with a lot more direct action and a lot more tension – probably because you, as the reader, suddenly don’t know where it’s going any more and the characters are in a state of high stress, not knowing when the body will be discovered and what conclusion the authorities might draw.

In some ways, the narrative both speeds up and slows down at the same time. Previously, it felt slow because there was a lot of discussion of people’s state of mind and long descriptions of places and events, without there being much direct action – but it covered weeks at a time in just a few pages. At the start of the second half, it follows what happens to the characters over the course of a few days in a lot of detail, but it feels much pacier because it’s almost all direct action and things seems as if they’re speeding towards some imminent crisis (though there’s still nearly 300 pages to go.)

The total lack of acknowledgement of wrongdoing continues when Henry is questioned by the police, once it becomes obvious that Bunny is missing: “He shook his head. ‘Honestly. Two hours. I don’t know if I could’ve made myself go through with this if I’d known what nonsense we were letting ourselves in for.’”

Then Francis comes back from spending an evening with Bunny’s family (again before the body is discovered) and is annoyed because one of the kids got ahold of his silk scarf and ruined it.

Richard says: ‘Were they upset?’

‘Who, the Corcorans? Of course not, I don’t think they even noticed.’

‘I don’t mean about the scarf.’

And yet – still – purely because they’re the protagonists of the book, I think, there’s a level on which I wanted them to get away with it. So, the book is very clever in the way it makes you question your perceptions of characters and morality in stories. 

It’s also interesting that Richard, as the first person protagonist, essentially remains on the outside of the group for the whole book. He’s not involved in the bacchanal that results in the death of the farmer, and he doesn’t even find out about it until months later. Then, when the plot to kill Bunny is hatched, he’s not supposed to be present for that either – though he does turn up and witness it in the end. He’s always in the dark about everything, continually wondering what’s going on, and asking the others questions but not really getting any answers. It makes for a very meandering, directionless narrative in some ways, without much in the way of real focus.

It also means that nearly all of the most important aspects are revealed in long conversations Richard has where one of the others finally tells him what’s actually been going on.

A quote that struck me – from a conversation where Richard and Charles are talking about Henry:

“You know what I wonder,” I said.


“Not why he tells us what to do. But why we always do what he says.”

It’s Henry who is the real ringleader, plan-maker, orchestrator of everything – not Julian in the least.

But the characters become less and less likeable – which I suppose makes sense in a way. When Richard first comes across them, they are figures of mystery and glamour. Then he gets to know them as real people, but only on the surface, so at least Charles and Camilla seem nice. But as the book progresses, the layers are peeled back and both Richard and the reader see more sides to them – Charles is very possessive of Camilla and there’s the suggestion that their relationship is physically abusive and also perhaps incestuous, Francis doesn’t seem to care all that much about consent in his sexual activities, Henry doesn’t really care about any of them other than as pawns to aid his own survival, etc. And, since they’re all under a great deal of stress, it’s believable that they would show worse aspects of themselves as things progress.

It’s summed up rather well with these lines:

“At one time I had liked the idea that the act, at least, had bound us together; we were not ordinary friends, but friends till-death-do-us-part. This thought had been my only comfort in the aftermath of Bunny’s death. Now it made me sick, knowing there was no way out. I was stuck with them, with all of them, for good.”

Richard himself also gets less appealing as the book goes on, even going so far as to think about assaulting Camilla himself after she shows him her bruises and burns.

Then the pace suddenly picks up again about 70 pages from the end, with the discovery of a letter Bunny sent to Julian, explaining all about the original death and saying that he thought the others were planning to kill him. Julian thinks it’s a fake but one of the pages is stationery from a hotel where Henry and Bunny stayed in Rome during the winter – so then there’s frantic scheming to figure out how they can steal that page and destroy it so it can’t be used as evidence that Bunny actually wrote the letter.

And of course it’s their attempts to get hold of the page before Julian sees the letterhead that actually lead to him seeing it. And then, after the crisis is come upon them and Henry ends up explaining the whole thing to Julian – Julian just gives him the letter and then abruptly leaves the country! Interestingly, the resolution of this point of tension that has been building for most of the book actually increases the sense of suspense as to what is ultimately going to happen at the end of the book, because there’s still 50 pages to go.

And, despite the fact that Charles is clearly getting more and more unhinged as time goes by, it’s actually not unreasonable for him to be afraid that Henry might kill him if Henry starts to consider him a potential threat – since, of course, that’s exactly what Henry did to Bunny!

It all gets surprisingly action-packed and tense at the very end – much more thriller-y than it has been up to that point. And weirdly, after all the lengthy, in-depth, analytical build-up – the climax with Charles waving a gun around, Richard accidentally getting shot and then Henry killing himself seems a rather cheap and tawdry conclusion to the novel.

When Francis subsequently tries to kill himself and fails, he tells Richard he has to get married because his grandfather found out he was gay and threatened to cut him off – and it all just seems very dreary.

Richard sums up the whole thing rather well:

“The story was simple, it told itself, really; suicidal Henry, struggle for the gun, leaving me wounded and him dead. In a way I felt this was unfair to Henry but in another way it wasn’t. It made me feel better in some obscure way: imagining myself a hero, rushing fearlessly for the gun, instead of merely loitering in the bullet’s path like the bystander which I so essentially am.”

And that’s it exactly – he’s a bystander for the whole book.


There were quite a few apparent inconsistencies that pulled me out of the story: 

Richard says, once he joins Julian’s group but doesn’t really become part of it, that he is completely isolated within the college because he doesn’t interact with any of the other students either. But then it also says he’s been to ‘every Friday night party since school began’, so that doesn’t track. 

Julian tells him he needs to quit all his other classes (apart from French) because he’ll only be studying with Julian and the rest of the group for his whole time at the college – but then Bunny has an English Lit assignment that he’s panicking about at the end of term, which none of the others are also doing. And later, Richard makes a comment about Camilla preferring English Lit to Greek, which is odd, if she’s sacrificed all other classes to be in Julian’s Classics clique.

Henry tells Richard that Bunny can’t keep his mouth shut and they’re worried about him telling people what they’ve done – and yet Bunny has multiple opportunities to tell even Richard (who might be considered a safe confidant) and he stays silent for more than five months, even during occasions when he’s drunk and Richard is actually asking him questions about it.

Julian tells Richard about Henry’s migraines – but, when Henry mentions them and asks Richard if he already knew about them, Richard thinks about Bunny going on and on about them in the past, even though he seems surprised to hear about it from Julian only a couple of days beforehand.

It says Julian taught a foreign princess at the college, ten years before – and then says Henry caught sight of her once, coming out of the Lyceum – but even if Henry’s in his third or fourth year of college, he wouldn’t have been there ten years before.

It’s generally confusing how long the others have actually been there or how long they’ve known each other – Richard joins Julian’s study group a few weeks into the third year of his undergraduate degree (though I missed the one sentence in the first chapter about him doing two years at another college, so I thought most of the way through that it was his first year). 

Obviously, Charles and Camilla are twins so have known each other their whole lives, and they tell Richard that Henry and Bunny are ‘old friends’, which strongly implied to me that they knew each other before going to college.

But then, much later, Bunny’s dad says Bunny and Henry met when they were roommates on first arriving at the college, which would mean they’ve known each other the same amount of time as the others have known them. Then, at one point, Francis refers to a time when he was a sophomore and Charles was a freshman, which puts them in different years. Towards the end, Richard categorically states that he’s in his third year of college – but also that he’s expecting to graduate with his degree at the end of that academic year – and I thought American undergraduate courses were four years? Also, at that point, he’s trying to figure out where he’s going to stay for the summer, which implies he’s intending to come back to the college the following academic year, so that doesn’t make sense. And, even so, it’s stated definitively that at least Charles and Francis are in different years. So it’s really confusing, because how would they all be in the same classes?


The critique aspect:

I’ve been watching a lot of old BookTube videos by TheBookLeo, a young Dutch woman who makes excellent content about books and reading. One of her favourite genres is ‘dark academia’ and The Secret History is one of books held up as where the popularity for this genre started. In a video I watched recently, Leonie did a break-down of what dark academia is – and one of the main aspects she talked about (alongside an outsider joining an exclusive group, academic setting, obsession, and death) was critique – which is often something I miss in books because I don’t often apply deep analytical skills when I’m reading for pleasure. Anyway, in a later video, Leonie looked at the GoodReads pages of various of her viewers (with their consent) and psycho-analysed them in a humorous way. For one of them, she said, “I bet it took you a long time to realise you weren’t supposed to want to be the characters in A Secret History.” I have to admit, I felt very seen…!

Clearly, though, the critique here is of the elitist nature of the academia at the college, and also the assumption of the characters that they are above the law because they are intelligent, well educated and wealthy.

One of the things Leonie pointed out in her reading vlog about The Secret History, which should have been totally obvious to me – is that the book’s critique of elitist academia is epitomised by Richard (from a modest background) wanting to learn to be like the others in the group. After all, if he hadn’t been attracted to them so much that he fought to be admitted to Julian’s classes, he never would have been involved in any of the murdering, the consequences of which he is very clear at the end have blighted his life.

I’m thinking, though, that Donna Tartt must have also had a similar level and type of education; otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to describe the kinds of things the characters are studying in the depth she does. Looking it up, the college in the book is based on the college Donna Tartt actually attended. Which is interesting… The author picture in the back of my copy is incredibly pretentious, but then it’s difficult for author pictures to be anything else. And, according to Wikipedia, several of the characters were based quite closely on real-life people at the college she went to.


In terms of diversity:

There aren’t any demographics specified, but I’m assuming it’s 100% white. There is one reference at Bunny’s funeral, when his football coach says he saved the day in a game against a team from ‘lower’ Connecticut and Francis leans over to Richard and says, “That means black.” So that’s a fair indication that there aren’t any non-white people in the general environs of the story.

Richard mentions early on that he thinks Francis is likely gay and perhaps Julian too, but it’s not discussed in any great detail. Bunny’s views on queerness are wildly offensive (as are his views on a lot of things), but there are off-hand comments in dialogue and the narrative itself (views ascribed to both Henry and Richard) about homosexuality that aren’t great. Later, Francis is definitely established as gay, and also predatory, in that he comes on to both Richard and Charles specifically when they’re drunk.

He even admits it himself when Richard asks him:

“Who’s Charles been to bed with?”

Francis brought up his glass and took a big drink. “Me for one,” he said. “That shouldn’t surprise you. If you drank as much as he does, I daresay I would have been to bed with you too.”

Richard is very disparaging towards and about several of the female students he has interactions with, while Camilla is set up on a pedestal as perfect and out of reach.

Having said that, it’s not really possible to criticise the author for presenting unfortunate views, since the protagonist himself is one of the main figures of censure in the book. We’re not meant to like him or respect him, and any issues with what he thinks or says will be a part of that meta-narrative.

One of the things Leonie from BookTube said about this book in her review was that there seem to be an awful lot of people who misunderstand its message, taking a lot of it at face value and perhaps assuming the protagonists are sympathetic purely because of their status as protagonists (as occurred to me). But I’m not sure how that can be true by the book’s end (unless they are wilfully misunderstanding it) because Henry poisons two dogs (while testing mushrooms to potentially use on Bunny) and Richard thinks it’s funny… And later, there are plenty of other examples of morally reprehensible things the other characters do.


Overall, I remembered almost nothing about this book, other than a strong impression that I didn’t like it the first time around:

In terms of general thoughts, I actually quite enjoyed it this time, at least for most of it, though I do think it’s much too long, and I was definitely much less invested by the very end.

After the thriller-type opening tease of the murder, it immediately turns into a sprawling, literary novel that takes far too long to get to the point. Even given its great length, there’s a lot of summary compared to the direct action, which makes it difficult to really immerse yourself in the story, especially in the first 250 pages.

That said, without the forced tension of the prologue and the occasional heavy-handed references to the shocks and doom to come, it would stand on its own as an in-depth character study and it really does have a lot of very beautiful language and imagery.

And, at the points where things do come to a head, the tension really pulls you along, wanting to know what’s going to happen, even when you already know!

I do know there are people who rank this book alongside either the best or worst books they’ve ever read – but I don’t see how it could engender that much emotion in either direction. I can see how some people might find it really boring and other people might find it really compelling (I lean more in the latter direction, but not so far as to fall off the cliff of desperate love for it), but I don’t think anyone could really argue that it’s badly written or that it’s mind-blowingly good. But then, the world would be a very tedious place if we all thought the same about everything. For me, it’s a 3.5 star book.

I thought it might take me most of the month to read it in the way I wanted to for this episode – but I actually finished it in 12 days, on top of reading three other books and listening to one and a half audiobooks – so resurrecting this project has certainly reinvigorated my reading! Long may it continue!


Looking back to my original review, which turns out to have been in June 2010, so a bit longer ago than I thought, here’s what I said the first time around.


“The Secret History by Donna Tartt tells the story of a group of incredibly pretentious college students who descend into murder and madness after trying to stage an authentic bacchanal.

I think the book would have had more impact on me ten or twelve years ago when I was still a pretentious college student myself.  I like to think I have a bit more sense and a bit more of a grasp of reality now, so I wasn’t seduced by their mysterious powers of attraction.  I actually didn’t like any of the characters much at all, but that didn’t stop the book from being well written, interesting and gripping right to the end.  The denouement actually shocked me – about 150 pages from the end, I really couldn’t see where the plot could possibly be going, and I didn’t guess later on either.

It’s not exactly a jolly book, all in all, but it’s a good exploration of the dangers of wanting to fit in, and the potential doom associated with trying too hard to make life meaningful.”


So, apparently, I’ve backtracked in my ability to avoid being seduced by glamorous and mysterious elitist characters in books, which is a bit worrying… And I was also completely wrong in thinking that I didn’t like this book the first time around. It seems like the ending didn’t disappoint me as much in 2010, either. So, overall, I still enjoyed it but in different ways!


And that’s it for this episode of Reviews Revisited. I thought about not teasing what I’m going to be doing next, in case it goes awry and I end up wanting to do something different – but I think I’m going to commit to the process and tie myself in to completing each piece of selected media, because it would be pretty boring if I only followed through on things I ended up liking on the revisit. So, in the next Resurrected Reviews Revisited episode, I’m looking at Illuminae by Jay Kristoff and Amy Kaufman.


Many thanks to Cambo for our theme music. And thank you so much for listening. If you like the show, please rate and review it wherever you get your podcasts.


And if you have any comments, or if you want to tell me about a time you revisited some media, and whether or not you still loved it afterwards, you can email me at I’d love to hear from you.


Specific questions – does anyone really want to listen to me talk about my thoughts on specific books for upwards of half an hour? (I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that question…) Are you one of the people who ranks The Secret History among either their favourite or least favourite books? If so, why???


You can also buy our merch at with hyphens where the spaces should be. 


Lastly, please join us for the next main episode of Will You Still Love It Tomorrow in two weeks to hear what happens when our friends, Kate and Jeremy get us to watch The Court Jester, a film from way back in 1955. Will we like it at all? And will Kate and Jeremy still love it after our discussion? I’m looking forward to finding out!


Bye for now!

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