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Winner of the 2014 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction
Winner of the 2014 Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Fiction
One of the New York Times Book Review's 10 Best Books of 2013
"There's a bewitching urgency to the narration that's impossible to resist. Theo is magnetic...The Goldfinch is a pleasure to read."—Publishers Weekly
"A long-awaited, elegant meditation on love, memory, and the haunting power of art....Eloquent and assured, with memorable characters....A standout—and well-worth the wait."—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
"A beautiful, stay-up-all-night-and-tell-all-your-friends triumph," runs the publisher's gush, incorrigibly, on the back cover of The Goldfinch. Hmmm. How about staying up all night, carrying on through the next day, gobbling some Benzedrine-like Jack Kerouac, staying up a second night, discovering in the white sadness of the dawn that there are still 300 pages to go, bursting into tears and burning the toast? And then telling all your friends?
Donna Tartt's third novel is 771 pages long. This is not a trivial consideration. It is moreover an enveloping and slightly paralyzing literary experience, such that if you submit to it in the proper spirit your Twitter feed may go unchecked, your Facebook page unrefreshed, for days or perhaps weeks. My reviewerly impulse is to compare it to a drug, to some kind of opiate or slow-release pill, but the book itself is already stuffed with drugs — coke, heroin, Oxycontin — so I will compare it instead to the memory implantation technology in Paul Verhoeven's Total Recall. Arnold Schwarzenegger, remember? Enjoying grafted-on memories of a fictional holiday on Mars? Well, after a session or two with this book the hissing curbs of rainy Manhattan will be yours forever, whether you've been there or not: traffic-torrents, city-spume on your ankles, rushing faces, patter of a friendly doorman — yours to keep. There will also be a corner of your brain devoted to the skies over Las Vegas, and another area that smells of high-end furniture polish.
Bomb-blast in the museum. That's how The Goldfinch begins, like a modernist manifesto in action. But though the fragments sunder and swirl, Tartt's storytelling is old-school, sequential, with a continuous, even pressure of mind behind it. Young Theo Decker is visiting the Met with his mother when chaos hits: things fall apart, the center cannot hold, etc. "Alarm bells clanged in a muffled distance... Stiffly I lay there, in the growing consciousness that something was out of joint. The light was all wrong, and so was the air..." Theo is only lightly injured, but his mother has been killed, and life as he has known it is over. The tinnitus from which he suffers in the immediate wake of the explosion will recur later, at times of acute stress. His unreliable, or reliably terrible, actor-alcoholic father having absented himself - - to the relief of Theo and his mother — some years before, he is effectively an orphan. The wealthy family of a school friend takes him in; from the cheerful bohemian existence he shared with his mother, he has been removed to a world of "glazed chintz and Chinese jars."
The lineaments of fairy tale are discernible here, and indeed people do begin to loom upon Theo with the vivid malevolence of Joan Aiken characters. " 'But hello,' she said — all charm all of a sudden, holding out to me her thin, red hands covered with diamonds." His haven and place of rest is the demesne of the furniture-restorer Hobie, whose niece Pippa is a fellow survivor the Met bombing. Hobie's dark workshop and gentle manners are a balm to the damaged Theo. I should mention at this point the small and very valuable painting by Fabritius, of a chained goldfinch, with which a wobbly Theo made off in the confusion of the freshly-shattered museum, and which, for reasons unclear to him, he cannot bring himself to return. His father reappears; he leaves New York, goes to live with his father in Vegas; altered skies, altered states, new chemicals and different friends (you will not soon forget the extraordinary Boris, a mobile drug-vacuum and mini-Lord of Misrule).Theo changes identities almost — but the painting travels with him, still hidden from the world, a charged object sending out secretive pulses of shame, promise, riches, scandal, fantasy.
Tartt's prose is of the kind that goes everywhere, explains everything, tumbles over its own rhythms in transports of data- based imagery. When a heavy debt-collector arrives at his father's door, a terrified Theo goes woozy over the man's footwear: "Not knowing what to say, I stared at his cowboy boots. They were black crocodile, with a stacked heel, very pointed at the toe and polished to such a high shine they reminded me of the girly-girl cowboy boots that Lucie Lobo, a way-out stylist in my mother's office, had always worn." TMI, as the kids say? A Rick Moody- esque piling-on of not-quite-necessary detail? Actually, no. Theo's mind works this way, in synaptic somersaults that generally lead back to his vanished mother. And as for the gangster, the feminine gloss of his pointy boots somehow increases his fearsomeness. (Elmore Leonard did this all the time.)
There are, it must be pointed out, no laughs in The Goldfinch. Plenty of emotional truth, moral mystery, perceptual overload and narrative surge — but no laughs. You will not find yourself giggling or snorting, even as Theo veers and crashes through a hundred comedy-ready situations and set-ups: art sharks, Vegas casualties, Russian mobsters and so on. Perhaps it is simply that his pain is too great, the pull of his anti-self too strong to allow any loose chuckles to escape. The Goldfinch has a corresponding power, a visionary drag on the circuits. When your core is out of whack, it seems to tell us, nothing can compensate. And so it will go, until the little chained bird is free.
James Parker is the author of Turned On: A Biography of Henry Rollins (Cooper Square Press), and a correspondent for The Atlantic.
Reviewer: James Parker
Boy with a Skull
While I was still in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years. I'd been shut up in my hotel for more than a week, afraid to telephone anybody or go out; and my heart scrambled and floundered at even the most innocent noises: elevator bell, rattle of the minibar cart, even church clocks tolling the hour, de Westertoren, Krijtberg, a dark edge to the clangor, an inwrought fairy-tale sense of doom. By day I sat on the foot of the bed straining to puzzle out the Dutch-language news on television (which was hopeless, since I knew not a word of Dutch) and when I gave up, I sat by the window staring out at the canal with my camel's-hair coat thrown over my clothes—for I'd left New York in a hurry and the things I'd brought weren't warm enough, even indoors.
Outside, all was activity and cheer. It was Christmas, lights twinkling on the canal bridges at night; red-cheeked dames en heren, scarves flying in the icy wind, clattered down the cobblestones with Christmas trees lashed to the backs of their bicycles. In the afternoons, an amateur band played Christmas carols that hung tinny and fragile in the winter air.
Chaotic room-service trays; too many cigarettes; lukewarm vodka from duty free. During those restless, shut-up days, I got to know every inch of the room as a prisoner comes to know his cell. It was my first time in Amsterdam; I'd seen almost nothing of the city and yet the room itself, in its bleak, drafty, sunscrubbed beauty, gave a keen sense of Northern Europe, a model of the Netherlands in miniature: whitewash and Protestant probity, co-mingled with deep-dyed luxury brought in merchant ships from the East. I spent an unreasonable amount of time scrutinizing a tiny pair of gilt-framed oils hanging over the bureau, one of peasants skating on an ice-pond by a church, the other a sailboat flouncing on a choppy winter sea: decorative copies, nothing special, though I studied them as if they held, encrypted, some key to the secret heart of the old Flemish masters. Outside, sleet tapped at the windowpanes and drizzled over the canal; and though the brocades were rich and the carpet was soft, still the winter light carried a chilly tone of 1943, privation and austerities, weak tea without sugar and hungry to bed.
Early every morning while it was still black out, before the extra clerks came on duty and the lobby started filling up, I walked downstairs for the newspapers. The hotel staff moved with hushed voices and quiet footsteps, eyes gliding across me coolly as if they didn't quite see me, the American man in 27 who never came down during the day; and I tried to reassure myself that the night manager (dark suit, crew cut, horn-rimmed glasses) would probably go to some lengths to avert trouble or avoid a fuss.
The Herald Tribune had no news of my predicament but the story was all over the Dutch papers, dense blocks of foreign print which hung, tantalizingly, just beyond the reach of my comprehension. Onopgeloste moord. Onbekende. I went upstairs and got back into bed (fully clad, because the room was so cold) and spread the papers out on the coverlet: photographs of police cars, crime scene tape, even the captions were impossible to decipher, and although they didn't appear to have my name, there was no way to know if they had a description of me or if they were withholding information from the public.
The room. The radiator. Een Amerikaan met een strafblad. Olive green water of the canal.
Because I was cold and ill, and much of the time at a loss what to do (I'd neglected to bring a book, as well as warm clothes), I stayed in bed most of the day. Night seemed to fall in the middle of the afternoon. Often—amidst the crackle of strewn newspapers—I drifted in and out of sleep, and my dreams for the most part were muddied with the same indeterminate anxiety that bled through into my waking hours: court cases, luggage burst open on the tarmac with my clothes scattered everywhere and endless airport corridors where I ran for planes I knew I'd never make.
Thanks to my fever I had a lot of weird and extremely vivid dreams, sweats where I thrashed around hardly knowing if it was day or night, but on the last and worst of these nights I dreamed about my mother: a quick, mysterious dream that felt more like a visitation. I was in Hobie's shop—or, more accurately, some haunted dream space staged like a sketchy version of the shop—when she came up suddenly behind me so I saw her reflection in a mirror. At the sight of her I was paralyzed with happiness; it was her, down to the most minute detail, the very pattern of her freckles, she was smiling at me, more beautiful and yet not older, black hair and funny upward quirk of her mouth, not a dream but a presence that filled the whole room: a force all her own, a living otherness. And as much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn't turn around, that to look at her directly was to violate the laws of her world and mine; she had come to me the only way she could, and our eyes met in the glass for a long still moment; but just as she seemed about to speak—with what seemed a combination of amusement, affection, exasperation—a vapor rolled between us and I woke up.
Things would have turned out better if she had lived. As it was, she died when I was a kid; and though everything that's happened to me since then is thoroughly my own fault, still when I lost her I lost sight of any landmark that might have led me someplace happier, to some more populated or congenial life.
Her death the dividing mark: Before and After. And though it's a bleak thing to admit all these years later, still I've never met anyone who made me feel loved the way she did. Everything came alive in her company; she cast a charmed theatrical light about her so that to see anything through her eyes was to see it in brighter colors than ordinary—I remember a few weeks before she died, eating a late supper with her in an Italian restaurant down in the Village, and how she grasped my sleeve at the sudden, almost painful loveliness of a birthday cake with lit candles being carried in procession from the kitchen, faint circle of light wavering in across the dark ceiling and then the cake set down to blaze amidst the family, beatifying an old lady's face, smiles all round, waiters stepping away with their hands behind their backs—just an ordinary birthday dinner you might see anywhere in an inexpensive downtown restaurant, and I'm sure I wouldn't even remember it had she not died so soon after, but I thought about it again and again after her death and indeed I'll probably think about it all my life: that candlelit circle, a tableau vivant of the daily, commonplace happiness that was lost when I lost her.
She was beautiful, too. That's almost secondary; but still, she was. When she came to New York fresh from Kansas, she worked part-time as a model though she was too uneasy in front of the camera to be very good at it; whatever she had, it didn't translate to film.
And yet she was wholly herself: a rarity. I cannot recall ever seeing another person who really resembled her. She had black hair, fair skin that freckled in summer, china-blue eyes with a lot of light in them; and in the slant of her cheekbones there was such an eccentric mixture of the tribal and the Celtic Twilight that sometimes people guessed she was Icelandic. In fact, she was half Irish, half Cherokee, from a town in Kansas near the Oklahoma border; and she liked to make me laugh by calling herself an Okie even though she was as glossy and nervy and stylish as a racehorse. That exotic character unfortunately comes out a little too stark and unforgiving in photographs—her freckles covered with makeup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck like some nobleman in The Tale of Genji—and what doesn't come across at all is her warmth, her merry, unpredictable quality, which is what I loved about her most. It's clear, from the stillness she emanates in pictures, how much she mistrusted the camera; she gives off a watchful, tigerish air of steeling herself against attack. But in life she wasn't like that. She moved with a thrilling quickness, gestures sudden and light, always perched on the edge of her chair like some long elegant marsh-bird about to startle and fly away. I loved the sandalwood perfume she wore, rough and unexpected, and I loved the rustle of her starched shirt when she swooped down to kiss me on the forehead. And her laugh was enough to make you want to kick over what you were doing and follow her down the street. Wherever she went, men looked at her out of the corner of their eyes, and sometimes they used to look at her in a way that bothered me a little.
Her death was my fault. Other people have always been a little too quick to assure me that it wasn't; and yes, only a kid, who could have known, terrible accident, rotten luck, could have happened to anyone, it's all perfectly true and I don't believe a word of it.
It happened in New York, April 10th, fourteen years ago. (Even my hand balks at the date; I had to push to write it down, just to keep the pen moving on the paper. It used to be a perfectly ordinary day but now it sticks up on the calendar like a rusty nail.)
If the day had gone as planned, it would have faded into the sky unmarked, swallowed without a trace along with the rest of my eighth-grade year. What would I remember of it now? Little or nothing. But of course the texture of that morning is clearer than the present, down to the drenched, wet feel of the air. It had rained in the night, a terrible storm, shops were flooded and a couple of subway stations closed; and the two of us were standing on the squelching carpet outside our apartment building while her favorite doorman, Goldie, who adored her, walked backwards down Fifty-Seventh with his arm up, whistling for a taxi. Cars whooshed by in sheets of dirty spray; rain-swollen clouds tumbled high above the skyscrapers, blowing and shifting to patches of clear blue sky, and down below, on the street, beneath the exhaust fumes, the wind felt damp and soft like spring.
"Ah, he's full, my lady," Goldie called over the roar of the street, stepping out of the way as a taxi splashed round the corner and shut its light off. He was the smallest of the doormen: a wan, thin, lively little guy, light-skinned Puerto Rican, a former featherweight boxer. Though he was pouchy in the face from drinking (sometimes he turned up on the night shift smelling of J&B), still he was wiry and muscular and quick—always kidding around, always having a cigarette break on the corner, shifting from foot to foot and blowing on his white-gloved hands when it was cold, telling jokes in Spanish and cracking the other doormen up.
"You in a big hurry this morning?" he asked my mother. His nametag said BURT D. but everyone called him Goldie because of his gold tooth and because his last name, de Oro, meant "gold" in Spanish.
"No, plenty of time, we're fine." But she looked exhausted and her hands were shaky as she re-tied her scarf, which snapped and fluttered in the wind.
Goldie must have noticed this himself, because he glanced over at me (backed up evasively against the concrete planter in front of the building, looking anywhere but at her) with an air of slight disapproval.
"You're not taking the train?" he said to me.
"Oh, we've got some errands," said my mother, without much conviction, when she realized I didn't know what to say. Normally I didn't pay much attention to her clothes, but what she had on that morning (white trenchcoat, filmy pink scarf, black and white two-tone loafers) is so firmly burned into my memory that now it's difficult for me to remember her any other way.
I was thirteen. I hate to remember how awkward we were with each other that last morning, stiff enough for the doorman to notice; any other time we would have been talking companionably enough, but that morning we didn't have much to say to each other because I'd been suspended from school. They'd called her at her office the day before; she'd come home silent and furious; and the awful thing was that I didn't even know what I'd been suspended for, although I was about seventy-five percent sure that Mr. Beeman (en route from his office to the teachers' lounge) had looked out the window of the second-floor landing at exactly the wrong moment and seen me smoking on school property. (Or, rather, seen me standing around with Tom Cable while he smoked, which at my school amounted to practically the same offense.) My mother hated smoking. Her parents—whom I loved hearing stories about, and who had unfairly died before I'd had the chance to know them—had been affable horse trainers who travelled around the west and raised Morgan horses for a living: cocktail-drinking, canasta- playing livelies who went to the Kentucky Derby every year and kept cigarettes in silver boxes around the house. Then my grandmother doubled over and started coughing blood one day when she came in from the stables; and for the rest of my mother's teenage years, there had been oxygen tanks on the front porch and bedroom shades that stayed pulled down.
But—as I feared, and not without reason—Tom's cigarette was only the tip of the iceberg. I'd been in trouble at school for a while. It had all started, or begun to snowball rather, when my father had run off and left my mother and me some months before; we'd never liked him much, and my mother and I were generally much happier without him, but other people seemed shocked and distressed at the abrupt way he'd abandoned us (without money, child support, or forwarding address), and the teachers at my school on the Upper West Side had been so sorry for me, so eager to extend their understanding and support, that they'd given me—a scholarship student—all sorts of special allowances and delayed deadlines and second and third chances: feeding out the rope, over a matter of months, until I'd managed to lower myself into a very deep hole.
So the two of us—my mother and I—had been called in for a conference at school. The meeting wasn't until eleven-thirty but since my mother had been forced to take the morning off, we were heading to the West Side early—for breakfast (and, I expected, a serious talk) and so she could buy a birthday present for someone she worked with. She'd been up until two-thirty the night before, her face tense in the glow of the computer, writing emails and trying to clear the decks for her morning out of the office.
"I don't know about you," Goldie was saying to my mother, rather fiercely, "but I say enough with all this spring and damp already. Rain, rain—" He shivered, pulled his collar closer in pantomime and glanced at the sky.
"I think it's supposed to clear up this afternoon."
"Yeah, I know, but I'm ready for summer." Rubbing his hands. "People leave town, they hate it, complain about the heat, but me—I'm a tropical bird. Hotter the better. Bring it on!" Clapping, backing on his heels down the street. "And—tell you what I love the best, is how it quietens out here, come July—? building all empty and sleepy, everyone away, you know?" Snapping his fingers, cab speeding by. "That's my vacation."
"But don't you burn up out here?" My standoffish dad had hated this about her—her tendency to engage in conversation with waitresses, doormen, the wheezy old guys at the dry cleaner's. "I mean, in winter, at least you can put on an extra coat—"
"Listen, you're working the door in winter? I'm telling you it gets cold. I don't care how many coats and hats you put on. You're standing out here, in January, February, and the wind is blowing in off the river? Brrr."
Excerpted from The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. Copyright © 2013 Donna Tartt. Excerpted by permission of Little, Brown and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Posted October 31, 2013
Any book of Donna Tartt's is like a miracle of reading. She is the closest thing to reading a Dickens sort of novel today with its density of characters and storyline, mysteries and details of the most minute and miracles of writing. To read one of her books is to experience a travel that's like no other. Reading "The Goldfinch" is like that. It's her best effort thus far, I think. It's simply the most amazing. And, that doesn't mean I don't think you should read her other two books!
I found myself jumping up several times in glee and forcing my husband just to listen to small descriptions of the otherwise mundane in this novel. She writes so beautifully that the union suit of a miner hanging on a bathroom shower curtain becomes iconic and gorgeous! It actually is so real, it lives and breathes!! Amazing stuff...so you can imagine how the rest of her story comes to life. The repair and care of antique furniture becomes so precious and such an act of love, it reaches your soul.
Tartt's characters are to love, hate, to sympathize with, to disparage, to want to reach out for. They are pitiful, disgusting, harmful, harmless and worthy of your most tender feelings. She runs the gamut. You become fully engaged...it's impossible not to. They are so alive.
This is a story about relationships of all kinds: parenting, friendship, love. There's fear and selfishness and other emotions from basic relationships. It's a story of redemption and finding ones place in the world. It's an exploration of the world from many sides of life.
I will admit there is so much to take in in this novel that I couldn't just sit down and read it fast like some books. I had to take it in parcels. I wanted to savor the words and the journey of its characters, particularly the primary one, Theo. I've always felt that way about Tartt's books. They are the kind you don't want to finish quickly because when you do, they'll be all gone! I hate to turn the last page.
I would welcome you on this journey of a special read. It's unusual. It's one that will charm you and touch your heart. It will cause you to stop and smile, laugh, cry out in surprise, feel hurt and even offended for the characters. I'd be very surprised if you don't love it as much as I have.
Donna Tartt is a genius author of our times. Not to read her is like not reading Joyce Carol Oates.
104 out of 118 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 4, 2013
This is the story of who boy who suffers a tragedy that sets his life off into a downhill spiral of self destructive behavior. This self destructive behavior goes on, in tedious detail, for 700 pages. Then in the last 50 pages he "sort of" redeems himself. But in the end he's still a miserable soul.
I hate to quit a book in the middle so i just kept plugging alond, hoping it would get better but it never did. I read all the way to the end. What a waste of time! This miserable story could have been told in half as many pages.
73 out of 109 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 2, 2013
I usually don't write reviews, but the greatness of this book demands it.
It is filled with utter beauty. I did not want this book to end. You would be missing a great work of art by not reading THE GOLDFINCH.
61 out of 69 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 21, 2013
I've purchase 174 books since buying my NOOK. Thi is the first time I've felt compelled to add a comment about one of my purchases.
If “brevity is the soul of wit,” as Shakespeare wrote, then Donna Tartt is unfamiliar with the concept. At times, it was excruciating to slog through this drivel; I stopped reading it three times out of sheer frustration and boredom. While certainly well written, the book is at least 300 pages too long. It reminded me of a person in love with their own speaking voice. Noteworthy only for its banal details and the unlikeable main character, I can not recommend this book.
55 out of 70 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 11, 2013
I could not stand this book. I found it so long...drawn out....depressing...I love mysteries and action....John Sandford.....Nelson DeMille...Linda Firstein....Richard North Patterson...Vince Flynn.....I guess I thought I would enjoy a change but I was so disappointed. I guess I am the only one but just had to let the readers know...sorry. I know a lot of people love her. Sallie Gutman
43 out of 75 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 14, 2013
I loved her first book but this was a victim of self indulgence and terrible editing
35 out of 52 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 18, 2013
Having truly enjoyed The Secret History and The Little Friend, I was really looking forward to The Goldfinch. Unfortunately, it did not live up to my expectations.
There's no denying that Tartt writes beautifully. However, there's an old saying that I think is particularly apt here: "She was talking just to hear herself talk." This sums up how I felt about The Goldfinch; Tartt was talking, but there was no real substance. With the exception of the opening scene in the museum, nothing that happened to Theo drew me in, and, as the book progressed, I found myself disliking him more and more. I would have liked to see more of Pippa, but even she seemed to be just a prop on which Theo could hang his unrequited love. The painting also played very little role in the story, making it seem as though it was just scaffolding meant to hold the whole mess together. By the end, when Tartt sank into maudlin sentiment, all I could do was wish for the end to come quickly.
I would have given The Goldfinch 2 stars for its "plot"; only the quality of Tartt's writing earned it the additional half-star.
33 out of 42 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 4, 2013
Reminiscent of Salinger, Dickens, Dostoyevsky with a dose of Hunter S. Thompson. Think I'm crazy? Read this and you might agree with me. Wow!
23 out of 36 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 25, 2014
I liked the concept of this book. I was drawn in to the story quickly, but by 250 pages I was longing for the pace to pick up. The interaction between characters was interesting, but the long, drawn out and very redundant self reflections got old very quick. After hearing such good things about this novel, I was determined to finish. Unfortunately, it never really got better for me. The last ten pages were like torture, and I confess I barely skimmed them.
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Posted November 24, 2013
If I could give a lower rating this book deserves it. Sunday comics have more plot and character development.
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Posted November 7, 2013
Posted November 20, 2013
Posted November 7, 2013
Posted November 15, 2013
Donna Tartt's latest novel is stunning and breathtaking. I don't know where to begin. I picked this up because I loved The Secret History, and lo! This one is even more impressively written. If you are planning to read this, I hope no one spoils any of the plot for you, because really, things keep happening and it's all riveting, and along the way, we learn about an artist most of us had never heard of before, meet some wonderful and unusual people, and come to care--and worry--very much about Theo. I will definitely be reading parts of this again...what can I say? It was awesome.
14 out of 19 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 7, 2013
Donna Tartt is an excellent writer and storyteller. I am thoroughly enjoying "The Goldfinch," however, I was just making the connection that the book had a modern day "Oliver Twist" aspect to it when Tartt makes a connection in the book that Boris is like the Artful Dodger when Tartt herself makes the connection in the novel. Wow, that really blew it for me. Then the chapter "The Idiot" made complete sense as part of the storytelling process and the connection to that book when once again, Tartt makes the connection herself. Sad that she thinks her readers are not well read and would not understand the references. But I still highly recommend the book.
12 out of 26 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 16, 2013
Didn't know when I purchased this book that it was so long. At this point I am not finished with it yet. However, it is a compelling story. I look forward every evening to reading it. I am pushed to see how it will end, but I also want to know the daily life of the main character, Theo.
11 out of 16 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 11, 2013
Wow. This story grabs you and doesn't let go. It is suspenseful, heart wrenching, funny, horrifying...and entirely imaginable.
My only criticism is that it may go on a bit too long.
10 out of 12 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
I had been affected by the experience of reading The Goldfinch, in the opening chapters of which a great tragedy happens there. The book is compelling and moving. Tartt is a master of foreshadowing, letting us know just enough of what is to come that we feel helpless to put down the book. I found myself staying up late for several nights, turning page after page to connect the dots. This book is every bit the equal of The Secret History in this regard. And it exceeds that earlier book in its great emotional depth. The opening section, in New York City, is terribly sad and in the hands of a lesser author this material would be difficult to get past. However, Tartt has signaled us well enough about the future of our protagonist, Theodore Dekker, that we stick with him. And from the second section of the book, while we have no shortage of continuing misery, it is tempered by hope or humor. The brilliant opening section immediately kept me engaged--I think the explosion and Theo's experience and recovery is some of the best writing I've read in years. The great thing about this book is that you can set it aside for a few days and pick it up again and not be "lost"--the writing and characters are that strong. The "plot" on the other hand seems to grow thinner and less important as you head down the last 200 plus pages as "big issues" are thoughtfully woven in. Some parts of the book even recall The Maltese Falcon, though the book treats its namesake artwork as more than merely a MacGuffin. Others will find different precedents, I'm sure. This book is long and rich.
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Posted November 9, 2013
Posted November 22, 2013
Also, check the manual for the functions of the "delete" key. How can you smell J&B Scotch on someone? I didn't make it past page 22.
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