Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

goldfinchBildungsroman” – That’s what books like these are called. A rather thick touchy one written in a first person monologue at times similar to that by Camus’s Meursault or Sam Raimi’s Elliot.But it was so simple and fluidic. Like sipping wine, something to relax on everyday, though it was kinda pointless at times.

Story spans through the teen ages of Theodor Decker towards his middle ages, which If given more papers Author might have extended till death. And the protagonist was as helpless as the reader in controlling his story. I really want to give some points on liking this book which on usual circumstances isn’t my type of read, except I don’t have any. Having that masterpiece painting, well allegedly, was giving Theo some strength, though the reveal of same might ruin his life, it was an excitement worth taking the risk for. He was often portrayed emotionless, especially around his Father, far better than that moron kid in The curious incident of the dog at the night though. And he was a schmuck for not contacting Andy, but somehow as a reader I understood him with his faults. It wasn’t pity for sure, since he wasn’t raised badly nor was in short of good company. Maybe, that was the magic of this book for me, it transcended really smooth.

And Blin!, Boris was exactly like that cheeki breeki Slav on youtube, he deserves a squatting ovation for saving the book. Though If given the chance I would edit out parts about Mr. Babour, I had no serious problem with the book being too long. In fact by the last few chapters I secretly wanted for more, though I knew there wont be any solid clincher. Like little puttertje in Fabritius’s Goldfinch, Theo was chained to his own mysterious blue chest. He was a pet bird almost all his life, delusional, lost and longing for care. And like they say, One had to be lost for others to be found.

the_goldfinch_puttertje_by_carel_fabritius_postcard-re2cdccb2d614441191712ba48ca5f938_vgbaq_8byvr_512Goldfinch was my fat companion over the last few months, I almost kept the piece away for days towards the last chapter. It was slowly becoming my personal Damascus, the way station and apogee like Amsterdam was for Theo, thanks to the unusual amount of time and emotions I had invested in the read. And there is a part of me contemplating to keep the library copy for my personal shelf much like Theo preserving the Fabritius’s Trompe-l’œil (I don’t know how to write or pronounce it, but word is fancy af).


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