A review by Bruce P. Grether
The Goldfinch, is a remarkable story in
which I truly lived and felt compelled to keep reading through the long
narrative, though sections of the book were difficult to live through. The
writing is superb throughout, and Tartt has written a totally plausible account
of the emotionally walking wounded, her narrator a boy traumatized by a
horrific tragedy, yet graced by the endowment of a mysterious gift, as well.
Though the narrator of the novel,
Theo Decker, (fictionally) takes custody of the actual painting, The Goldfinch, painted by Carel
Fabritius in 1654, the painting itself is not the legacy he believes it to be. In
fact, he does not steal the painting in the ordinary sense, and yet to him it
becomes more valuable than its incalculable “resale” value. Rather than plant too many spoilers in this review, let me simply say that Theo’s life after the
initial loss his mother is challenging, sometimes tortured and even horrific.
In fact, his self-destructive behavior can be an ordeal for the reader, and yet
it makes sense that he would behave thus—all too much sense!
This is a lengthy book, at 771
pages, and yet I regretted it ending. It contains a treasure chest of choice
characters with layers of plausible depth and living, breathing reality,
particularly Pippa, Mrs. Barbour, Hobie, and the wild, rather dangerous though
basically decent Boris. Theo’s path is circuitous and obsessive, beset with
sudden catastrophes, and sometimes, coincidences, yet these are not implausible;
any life fully lived has plenty of such significant unexpected connections,
meetings and surprises.
Something I could not much identify
with and often found harrowing, was the abundance of heavy drinking and drug
use in much of the book, and yet in retrospect this is also understandable
because of Theo’s horrific history. Curiously, his wild and crazy, beloved
friend Boris has a very different attitude and response to his own traumatic
history. These close friends have a relationship of admirable complexity and
the kind of nuances and contradictions of behavior we actually experience.
I definitely came to love and
admire Mrs. Barbour, Hobie, and even Boris, more than Theo himself, who remained
deeply flawed throughout, though he finally grew and changed somewhat eventually,
if not a great deal. Something quite fascinating in retrospect is that within
the “reality frame” of the novel, Theo as narrator must be just as talented a
writer as Donna Tartt. It’s entirely told in first person, and the concluding
pages provide a succession of stunning grace notes without any phony salvation
involved.
One more intriguing element here is
the fact that the actual painting, The
Goldfinch, presented with some true backstory, is also given a detailed
fictional history for over a decade of its existence, a kind of alternate
timeline to “this,” and finally it provides that delicate, mysterious and
profound interplay between art and life, which in lesser hands could seem
trite. In fact, art and life converge perfectly here!
I consider this novel, like the
titular painting, to be a genuine masterwork.
