This is going to be a bit of a mind-splurge, as is seeming becoming common-place in this blog. I find that it helps me to get the thoughts out of my head a bit more clearly.
The Goldfinch was an absolute by-the-till impulse purchase in a bookshop a few weeks ago. I have never read either of Tartt's other novels, as good as I am told they both are. I didn't really know anything about the novel either. So I didn't go into it with any expectations which I suspect was a good thing. I will now proceed, inevitably, to construct some expectations for you so if you favour a blank canvas approach to reading a new book (pardon the obvious metaphor), please turn away now.
The first thing to note about The Goldfinch is that Tartt's prose is immaculate- it is like sleeping in silk: you barely know it's there but you can feel the quality of it (this is a bit of a projected metaphor: I have never slept in silk, I sleep in ancient mismatched pyjamas of indistinguishable fibre). She glides her reader along with the utmost care, a street is described in 300 words, a note, an aside can take a page and a half but the story, or at least the first half of the story does not drag. There is no awkward crunch of a misplaced adjective, or an over-laden clause (in this respect it is the polar-opposite of this blog) and it seems to have been given the editorial care of a priceless object. This, as it turns out, is half the problem with the closing stages of the novel but more of that later.
The story revolves around Theodore Decker, a boy who, in a cruel twist of fate, loses his mother in a tragic and violent way. His action immediately after this event takes the rest of the novel to play out, over a period of 14 years taking in America and Europe. When we meet Theodore (or "Potter" as his damaged and spirited friend Boris takes to calling him, even into adulthood) he is holed up in a Dutch hotel room, sick in body and mind, recounting the story that has brought him to this point.
Theodore himself is written as a curiously absent character, with a personality fundamentally joined to the event that shattered his childhood. He is no where near as nuanced as the supporting players, particularly Boris, the poly-national drop-out he meets in Las Vegas, his damaged formally-absent father who takes him there, and the high-society Barbours who facing their own brittle realities initially take him in. The warmth, the heart of this story (although also present, albeit in an increasingly broken way, in the very fine characterisation of Mrs Barbour, particularly in the latter stages of the novel) is reserved for Hobie, the antique-restorer who fate throws into Theodore's path. The hulking benevolence of his character- juxtaposed with the ephemeral Pippa. is at once omniscient and naive and I was disappointed that Tartt, however understandably, relegates him from the final quarter of the novel, much as Theodore does.
There is much to appreciate in this novel, which at 864 pages in my edition, is no weekend read (nor should it be- in my humble opinion people who race through novels as if to win some sort of prize miss the point of reading entirely. I would say that though, I am a slow reader). However, the ending of the novel disappointed me no end. It didn't really have anything to do with the plot, which is resolved well- although the second the novel 'catches up' with itself in Amsterdam it all goes a bit bonkers-, but in the pseudo-academic meta-conclusioning that Tartt insists on putting her reader through, in Theodore's name and voice.
One of the main themes of the novel is the power of art on the individual and the place of art as a unifying agent across time and space (in a non-Doctor Who-y way). Theodore, like his mother before him, is captivated by the painting of the eponymous Goldfinch and his own conclusion is that regardless of the absolute nihilism which is part-and-parcel of the human existence (I know, ever so cheery, this) art, and in particular, a piece of art with which one truly connects, can act as a kind of salvation, Which, y'know, I get. However, Tartt then blunderingly breaks the reader/author/protagonist dynamic: suddenly Theodore is addressing a reader, as it becomes clear that he's been writing something all along ("although it doesn't matter since no one's ever going to see this" *snore...*), and talks about the beauty of understanding that "we can speak to each other across time" through art.
Suddenly the hand has been played. Like the intricate brush-works and textures on the canvas Tartt is suddenly screaming at us: isn't what I've just done beautiful? Aren't I clever? You'll carry this with you forever! Which is a massive gamble because, if you loved the novel more than any other book you've ever read, you'll cry "Oh god, I understand, this novel- it is my Goldfinch" and laugh and cry and know that you will be forever bound to this book, to all those who read it and have the same emotional connection, and you will, in your own small way, become immortal. If you don't (and this, dear reader, in case you were in any doubt, is where I am), you'll see The Goldfinch as a very fine book, like a very fine painting in a gallery, which you will close and go 'ahh' and have enjoyed, but which will have ultimately left you with the feeling that it was just a touch pretentious. Which is a great shame, because the craft is spectacular. The plot is compelling, I just felt that Tartt reached a little too far in her closing pages and, in so doing, overcooked her Goldfinch just ever-so slightly.
Perhaps I am being disingenuous- perhaps Tartt is making a wider point about art which doesn't direct include her own work. But the fact that the novel is called The Goldfinch does bring out my cynical side. However, who am I to argue, I haven't won a Pulitzer for anything (there's no blog category, right?). So reader, I recommend this book to you, if only so you can make up your own mind.
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