'Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe' by Benjamin Alire Sáenz
- Reed
- Apr 13
- 3 min read
Updated: May 8
Author: Benjamin Alire Sáenz
Rating: ★★★★☆ (B)
Vibe: Lyrical, sun-soaked El Paso coming-of-age with quiet introspection and tender awakenings
Quick Take: A beautifully written, slow-burn YA novel that prioritizes emotional authenticity over plot, with moments that will make your heart ache—in the best way.
The first time I picked up "Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe," I was struck by its deceptive simplicity. Sáenz's prose reads like poetry disguised as conversation—spare, rhythmic, and with a quiet intensity that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Set against the backdrop of 1980s El Paso, the novel introduces us to Aristotle "Ari" Mendoza, a fifteen-year-old Mexican American boy who carries more emotional weight than any teenager should: a distant father traumatized by Vietnam, a brother in prison whose name is never spoken, and a loneliness so profound it feels like a character itself.
And then there's Dante Quintana—open, artistic, unafraid to cry—who crashes into Ari's carefully constructed emotional fortress with the offer of swimming lessons. What unfolds is a friendship that evolves with all the deliberate pace of a desert sunrise, through near-death experiences, family revelations, and the aching confusion of two boys discovering who they are to themselves and each other.
What works brilliantly here is Sáenz's portrayal of family—a refreshing departure from the rejection narratives that often dominate gay YA. The parents in this story aren't villains or obstacles; they're complex humans with their own struggles who genuinely love their sons. Ari's relationship with his father—a man of few words carrying the ghosts of war—evolves with such delicate precision that their eventual connection feels both hard-won and authentic. It's rare to see masculine vulnerability portrayed with such care, especially within Latino culture's expectations of manhood.
The novel's approach to gayness is understated and organic rather than performative. Much like real adolescence, sexuality isn't announced—it's discovered through confusion, denial, and eventual acceptance. For some readers, this slow burn might feel frustratingly restrained, especially since Ari spends much of the book actively avoiding his feelings. But there's something truthful in this portrayal—coming out to yourself is often the hardest step, and Ari's resistance feels genuine rather than a convenient plot device.
If I'm being honest, the pacing sometimes drags beyond leisurely into frustrating territory—there are stretches where page after page of Ari's internal monologue feels more like treading water than moving forward. And while the philosophical dialogue often shines, it occasionally strains credibility even for thoughtful teens. Dante, in particular, sometimes reads less like a real teenager and more like an idealized catalyst for Ari's growth—the perfect foil rather than a fully realized person with his own messy contradictions.
The resolution presents the book's biggest stumble. After such patient, meticulous character development, the emotional payoff arrives with a suddenness that feels narratively convenient rather than earned. The groundwork is there, certainly, but the final arc lacks the gradual evolution that characterized the rest of the journey. When the climactic moment finally comes, it should feel revelatory—instead, it feels rushed, as though Sáenz, after taking his time with everything else, suddenly glanced at his watch and realized he needed to wrap things up.
For gay readers who grew up in the 80s or 90s, especially those from communities where cultural expectations of masculinity ran deep, there's a particular resonance to Ari's journey. His struggle isn't just with sexuality but with vulnerability itself—the terrifying prospect of letting someone see you completely. When he notes, "I was a boy, and I wanted to be a different kind of boy," it captures something essential about the gay experience that transcends any specific era.
Sáenz has crafted something rare here—a YA novel that respects its readers enough to sit with discomfort rather than rushing to resolution. It's a book about discovering not just who you love, but how to love at all when you've built walls around your heart. In the quiet spaces between its lyrical sentences, "Aristotle and Dante" offers something profound: permission to take your time figuring yourself out, and the assurance that sometimes, the people who matter most will wait for you to get there.
