The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

A young boy steals an invaluable painting in the wake of a bombing, and it comes to dominate his life.

If anybody actually follows this blog, they probably think I am dead. I have never gone this long without posting a review! It’s been 3 weeks! What a way to start the new year. Basically, what happened was that I started a reread of Game of Thrones. Then my friend loaned me a copy of The Goldfinch, so I started reading that at the same time. Both books are massive bricks, but no biggie, it was holiday time, we were at my parents, so supposedly I’d have all this time to read while Nanni & Pop Pop entertained the Superfast Hellions. But said personal time for reading never materialized, and on top of that I got two crazy intense work assignments that basically devoured my life. I got sidetracked reading hundreds of pages by and about Salman Rushdie, none of which are bloggable. But I am minutes away from finishing GoT and then you can expect my usual madcap pace to resume.

You’re still reading? That’s awfully sweet of you. Have you read The Goldfinch? I know, I couldn’t put it down either. The Little Friend was a slog but Donna Tartt is back on her game. Theo Decker reminded me a lot of the narrator of The Secret History, isolated on the fringes of elitism, depressed and alone, though not freezing cold. But sick a lot. More drugs in this one, but less sex. Message about the importance of art that I’m still pondering.

I’d love it if Boris and Tyrion Lannister could get a sitcom together, but that’s what happens when you read two books at the same time.

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