The Secret History

by Donna Tartt

Mrs. MacNatt was shaped like a pigeon and sold Avon.

“When you’re worried about something,” said Henry abruptly, “have you ever tried thinking in a different language?”

Somebody—one of those damned toddlers, I guess—got my favorite scarf off the bed and wrapped up part of a chicken leg in it.

food the neighbors had made: tuna casseroles, gelatin molds in Tupperware, and a frightful dessert called a “wacky cake” that I am at a loss to even describe.

I felt acutely the hopelessness of ever trying to get to the bottom of anything with Henry. He was like a propagandist, routinely withholding information, leaking it only when it served his purposes.

Very faintly, on a downstairs radio, a sprightly female voice sang a song about yogurt, backed by a chorus of mooing cows.

“It was the most important night of my life,” he said calmly. “It enabled me to do what I’ve always wanted most.” “Which is?” “To live without thinking.”

Mais, vrai, j’ai trop pleuré! Les aubes sont navrantes. What a sad and beautiful line that is. I’d always hoped that someday I’d have the chance to use it.