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A review by savaging
The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt
2.0
Donna Tartt wants to write about rich people. She wants to write about the white boys surrounded by luxury and still achingly unsatisfied.
But she also needs us to care about these characters. She knows we will only care if she makes them suffer, and so they suffer. Endlessly. Terrorism or a hangover -- something's always there to ruin their day.
They somehow stay rich as they suffer, so they can remain immersed in high-cost consumables. The conclusion leaves me flummoxed: absurd abundance flattened by the anxiety of scarcity. Perfectly-coifed-dressed-cultured mother who is also literally searching the couch cushions for coins so she can pay for the take-out she ordered. (And this rich-poor mother is also so sweet, so humble that all the Latino servants around her are scrambling to give her and her son cash, the Latina maid is weeping and offering her services for free...)
I know everybody loves this book, and Tartt is skilled and put in all of this work, and it's wrong of me to be dour. Maybe I'm just annoyed that I read another Tartt tome and still nothing passed the Bechdel Test. Maybe I'm judgmental of people who are moved more by antique furniture and fine art than they are by the living breathing world. But Tartt warned us all that there's no accounting for hearts: you love what you love. And she'd probably agree I should read books about centipedes or something instead of New York socialites.
I actually do really like the ending chapter, when the suspense is finally resolved and I get to rest with the ideas. I like Boris. I like the surrealism of the Las Vegas section. I even like the painting. But I think I'm going to give Donna Tartt a rest.
But she also needs us to care about these characters. She knows we will only care if she makes them suffer, and so they suffer. Endlessly. Terrorism or a hangover -- something's always there to ruin their day.
They somehow stay rich as they suffer, so they can remain immersed in high-cost consumables. The conclusion leaves me flummoxed: absurd abundance flattened by the anxiety of scarcity. Perfectly-coifed-dressed-cultured mother who is also literally searching the couch cushions for coins so she can pay for the take-out she ordered. (And this rich-poor mother is also so sweet, so humble that all the Latino servants around her are scrambling to give her and her son cash, the Latina maid is weeping and offering her services for free...)
I know everybody loves this book, and Tartt is skilled and put in all of this work, and it's wrong of me to be dour. Maybe I'm just annoyed that I read another Tartt tome and still nothing passed the Bechdel Test. Maybe I'm judgmental of people who are moved more by antique furniture and fine art than they are by the living breathing world. But Tartt warned us all that there's no accounting for hearts: you love what you love. And she'd probably agree I should read books about centipedes or something instead of New York socialites.
I actually do really like the ending chapter, when the suspense is finally resolved and I get to rest with the ideas. I like Boris. I like the surrealism of the Las Vegas section. I even like the painting. But I think I'm going to give Donna Tartt a rest.