The Goldfinch

The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, is a rarity in the book business: a smash hit and a literary success, placing on many best-of-the-year lists and winning the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. Though that makes it sound like a consensus classic, it is not, for there are many literary types who loathe the book. Just recently an essay in Vanity Fair pointed out the critics, mostly highbrow types, who have excoriated the book.

So where do I come down? Well, it may not be literarily tony, but The Goldfinch is a great read. Is is literature or is entertainment? Does it matter? I'm reminded of a post on slate.com by a numbskull who said that adults should be "embarrassed to read" YA literature. I say you shouldn't be embarrassed to read anything, except for child porn or KKK pamphlets.

I think the reason a lot of literary snobs don't like The Goldfinch is that is heavily plotted. Many have noted the Dickensian aspects: it is a bildungsroman about an orphan, who over the course of 700 pages must redeem himself. Our hero, Theo Decker, goes from New York to Las Vegas back to New York to Amsterdam, all while feeling guilty about the death of his mother, and cherishing an object that is his last connection to her.

The book begins with Theo and his mother, with time to kill before seeing his school principal about a suspension, ducking into the Met. A terrorist bomb goes off, killing her. An elderly gent, dying, gets Theo to promise he'll take care of a small painting, "The Goldfinch,"  by Carel Fabritius (it didn't occur to me until much later that it is a real painting). Theo, dazed, walks out of the museum, holding the painting, which he hides.

As his father's whereabouts are unknown, he takes refuge with the family of his friend, the geeky Andy. This section is one of the book's best, as Theo tries to get comfortable in this family of rich New Yorkers, although Andy is thrilled to have him: "Sometimes I wondered exactly what it might take to break Andy out of his math-nerd turret: a tidal wave? Decepticon invasion? Godzilla tromping down Fifth Avenue? He was a planet without an atmosphere."

Theo then meets one of the two other major characters of the book. Hobie is a furniture restorer and the partner of the man who died next to Theo in the museum. Hobie will be the Mr. Micawber of the book, endlessly kind, a father figure for the ages. Theo also meets Pippa, the old man's niece, who was injured in the blast. She will become the book's Estella, the girl that Theo will always long for but never have (although Pippa is nowhere as nasty as Estella).

Theo's father reappears and moves him to Las Vegas, where the old man is trying to make a living betting on sports and living with a trashy blonde named Xandra. Vegas is catnip to writers, almost as much as New York, London, or Paris, as it is totally unlike any other place in the world. Here is Tartt's take: "What would Thoreau have made of Las Vegas: its lights and rackets, its trash and daydreams, its projections and hollow facades?"

There Theo will meet the other major character of the book, its Artful Dodger, Boris, a Ukrainian immigrant who is Theo's classmate. They hang out like the Huck and Tom of the 21st century, getting high, shoplifting, eating junk food, and living mostly unsupervised. A tragedy will cause Theo to return to New York, but Boris will re-enter the picture, and how.

This is about only the first half of the book. Theo returns and works with Hobie, and we learn about the antique furniture business. All the while Theo hangs on to the painting, afraid he will get arrested, but unsure how to return it. This will all lead to the least impressive part of the book, a clash with international art thieves in Amsterdam, including a shootout. I have to downgrade this book from five to four stars based on the unsatisfactory nature of the ending.

Many critics have cited Tartt for use of cliches, such as "tip of the iceberg." But she also has a lovely way with a simile, such as "I might have liked Xandra in other circumstances--which, I guess, is sort of like saying I might have liked the kid who beat me up if he hadn't beat me up." Or, "Then another guy appeared, much much younger and much much bigger...Malaysian or Indonesian with a face tattoo and eyepopping diamonds in his ears and a black topknot on the crown of his head that made him look like one of the harpooners from Moby Dick, if one of the harpooners from Moby Dick had happened to be wearing velvet track pants and a peach satin baseball jacket."

The Goldfinch may not be the Great American Novel, but it's absorbing, frequently funny, and never dull. Whatever your taste in literature, read it when you have a chance. You won't be sorry.