I had planned to read The Goldfinch over my summer holiday break. A chunkster, lazy days lying by the pool & late, wine-infused nights sounded perfect to me!But then I began to read and hear the rumblings of unhappy readers. Disappointed reviews because The Goldfinch didn't live up to The Secret History. Concern over the unnecessary length - the drawn-out, self-indulgent, repetitive passages.
Was The Goldfinch sumptuous or inert? Lavish or a flight of fancy? Exquisite or uneven? Triumphant or tedious? Dickensian or dishwater?
I couldn't risk packing such a big book for my holidays to have it flop.
So I started it last week.
And I wish I'd saved it for my holidays!!
It's the kind of book that deserves long, lazy days completely devoted to reading. The kind of uninterrupted, distraction free, immersive reading days that fuelled my childhood.
I think that's where the negative reviews may be coming from - reviewers unable to immerse themselves into the world of this book, unable to let go & allow themselves to go along for the journey, but instead, caught up in a busy schedule with demands on their time and unable to lose a week of their time to a chunkster.I get that.
There are times and there are books that I can't get into or get lost in myself because of the other stuff going on around me.
But luckily for me, and for The Goldfinch, I was ready to get lost in a good book. I wanted an excuse to escape the crazy, busyness of the pre-Christmas rush. I needed another world to disappear into.
The early sections of The Goldfinch where Tartt re-imagines another 9/11 style terrorist strike on the Met are stunning with their horror, randomness and chaotic slowness. The following chapters detailing Theo's grief are authentic and heart-wrenching.
The tale of the post-traumatic orphaned boy and what would become of him had me in it's grip completely.
Well almost.
Out of the blue, my interest began to wane.
The stay with the Barbours in NY was just stretching out a little too long, when suddenly bam! something happened.
Then Theo's alcohol & drug crazed time in Las Vegas with Boris was just starting to feel a little ridiculous when bam! something happened.
Then we suddenly jumped 8 years and bam! Theo meets someone from his past on the streets of New York. Instead of being in the grip of the story, I'm becoming aware of the writer and the writing process. The magic dust has worn off.
My early concern for Theo is beginning to ebb away. With every shoddy deal, with every drug snorted, my care factor is slipping away.
How am I going to summon up the energy to finish this book?
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I wrote the above last night & planned to post it on my way to work this morning after giving it one last edit.
But I've done something drastic in the meantime.
I gave up.
I tried to read a little more before going to bed - about Theo's unrequited love for Pippa - and I realised I couldn't care less.
But I needed to know that Hobie was okay, since he was the one believable character in the whole thing.
So I jumped to the last chapter - where we suddenly find Theo philosophising to his unknown future reader about life, death and art!!!!!
Hobie was okay, disillusioned, but okay.
And Theo? To be perfectly frank, I don't give a shit anymore!
