The latter half of The Secret History is primarily concerned with the repercussions of Bunny’s death. Among other consequences, the Greek students are tortured by their guilty consciences, with the notable exception of Henry. Though their guilt is bad enough when lying alone in their rooms, it intensifies when they interact with those who cared for Bunny. Richard almost breaks down and apologizes to Mr. Corcoran, Bunny’s father, when they are first introduced, and several of the Greek students attend Bunny’s funeral drunk or high in fear that they will break down in front of everyone. Ultimately, their collective guilt leads to the death of Henry, a suicide attempt by Francis, a companionless life for Richard, and the destruction of Charles and Camilla’s relationship. At the start of the novel, Richard states, “I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.” This statement is, in essence, the novel’s thesis on guilt. Guilt is overpowering; it supersedes all other emotions and can be life-defining if powerful enough. It is for this reason that Richard ends the novel exactly where he began: alone and still obsessing over the event that singlehandedly changed the trajectory of his life.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Guilt ThemeTracker
Guilt Quotes in The Secret History
I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.
Out on the lawn, Bunny had just knocked Henry’s ball about seventy feet outside the court. There was a ragged burst of laughter; faint, but clear, it floated back across the evening air. That laughter haunts me still.
His gaze—helpless, wild—hit me like a blackjack. Suddenly, and for the first time, really, I was struck by the bitter, irrevocable truth of it; the evil of what we had done. It was like running full speed into a brick wall. I let go of his collar, feeling completely helpless. I wanted to die. “Oh, God,” I mumbled, “God help me, I’m sorry—”
Slowly, slowly, with a drugged, fathomless calm, Henry bent and picked up a handful of dirt. He held it over the grave and let it trickle from his fingers. Then, with terrible composure, he stepped back and absently dragged the hand across his chest, smearing mud upon his lapel, his tie, the starched immaculate white of his shirt.
“I can’t marry you [. . .] because I love Henry.”
“Henry’s dead.”
“I can’t help it. I still love him.”
I loved him, too,” I said.
For a moment, I thought I felt her waver. But then she looked away.
“I know you did,” she said. “But it’s not enough.”
“Are you happy here?” I said at last.
He considered this for a moment. “Not particularly,” he said. “But you’re not very happy where you are, either.”
