The Goldfinch: My Unsolicited Opinion

The Goldfinch (written by Donna Tartt) is the tragic adventure of a young boy named Theo Decker. It all begins in a museum and ends in Amsterdam with about 800 pages in between.

This was a captivating story drawn out much, much further than necessary.

The detail was impeccable, but often tiring. The lack of good decision making from any of the characters was maddening. The fact that I just couldn’t put the book down made me want to pull my hair out. How could so many people simultaneously choose the path that would only bring them more problems? How could no one stop for a moment to even try to comprehend the bigger picture?

But that’s the reality of a wild life, isn’t it? And a good story. A part of me just wishes this story could have been told in 300 pages or less. How many pages does one really need to describe a drug-induced stupor? But I admire and commend Donna Tartt on her pure talent for creating extraordinary from the mundane.

Every character, besides Theo’s mum and Hobie, was difficult to love; much like most normal humans. And while we are supposed to feel great empathy and compassion for Theo in the beginning, the ability to empathise runs out when the pages turn into what feels like a never-ending pity party.

I loved this book and hated it all at the same time. It was a little too raw and a little too real to be read in comfort. But that is the style of the author, and part of what makes her work irreplaceably great. I’m craving to read more of her work, but I need time to recover.

Opinions & The Art of Reading

Once again, I’ve managed to acquire far too many books. Only this time, I have had to cram them into the cramped spaces hidden around a Victorian-era English house.

Because London seems to be under some spell stripping it of time, I also find it quite difficult to finish reading through my precious treasures. So, I just look at them and they make me happy all the same. The people I live with find it ridiculous, my obsession with books. “A waste of time”, they call it. But we all have our vices; just as they love to fill the spare hours with TV, I love to get lost in my stories. Really they’re both the same, but would we be human if we didn’t convince ourselves that we are wholly better than everyone else around us? That our passions and desires are the only things worth anything, and those who differ must be mental?

I had only caught glimpses of this way of thinking in my past life. Well, my father was very much like this which is why, I believe, we didn’t get along after the divorce. My mother, on the other hand, was quite fluid and easygoing as long as you respected her and kept unnecessary opinions to yourself. She taught us that the world is full of differences and everyone is right in their own way. Now in my 20’s, I can say that I don’t agree with everyone nor believe all differences to be right or good, but I do believe in respect and boundaries. I can’t be bothered to care about most things and if you would like to live differently from me, be my guest. If you seek my opinion, it is yours. But life is too short to be so worried about everyone else around you unless you have to be. Besides, would the world be quite so captivating without all of the varying shades and hues that give it so much life?

Once upon a time, I would have been quite put out by negative talk regarding my books or really anything I liked. But I have grown a slightly less thin layer of skin, so I continue getting lost in worlds so far from my own. I love my books, I love reading them, I love being inspired by them. I have just finished reading The Jade Peony by Wayson Choy, a story in 3 parts narrated by a sister and two brothers. It is about life for the first generation of children of Chinese immigrant parents in 1930’s-1940’s Canada. It was touching and slightly heartbreaking, I finished it in 4 days. Now I am on to Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, one of my favourite authors. The opinions will announce themselves again, loudly attempting to interrupt my venture into those deep pages. The book will be branded stupid just like the last one and all of the ones before that, but I’ve stopped caring. My stories will go on, and I will go with them.