The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt: A review in Two parts

Part Two: The Review
Part One is here.

I read Donna Tartt's The Secret History a few years ago and loved it. It's a favorite.  So I was super excited to hear that she was finally publishing something new.  The Goldfinch.  As soon as we got the advance at the store a coworker snatched it up, but she stopped reading about 200 pages in. Her early thoughts had me thinking that maybe I wouldn't even bother with it.  But then all the reviews and press started coming out; and it was good press.  Glowing.  It was difficult to find a review that was less than worshiping.  So I gave it a shot.

Quick synopsis if you haven't read any of the reviews.  This is the story of Theo Decker.  He's just a kid when his mother is killed in a horrifying accident he miraculously survives.  The novel follows Theo as he grows up, weighed down by grief and anger and guilt and loneliness.  That sounds bleak, I know.  I cried multiple times reading this book...at least three instances of pretty serious sobbing.  But there's also suspense, action, danger. And there's joy, and humor, and friendship; and all of that propels you through the hard stuff.  It's life.  And it's pretty stunning.  Oh, and there's also a painting.

I don't want to say too much, because suspense and mystery do play a pretty important role, so, I will just lay out a few of my favorite things.

This book is huge.  It clocks in at almost 800 pages.  Bit of a monster, really.  So I was grateful that Tartt doesn't keep us nailed down in one spot the entire time.  And the portion of the novel that takes place in Las Vegas is....it's...I don't know what it is, but it had this weird and profound effect on me.  It's not as if I have any love for Las Vegas.  I don't even like Vegas beyond the fact that when I was there a few weeks ago, it was unbelievably sunny, and The Killers are from there (seriously The Killers?!? every fucking post...get out of my life!).  I think the power of the Vegas bit of Goldfinch is a combination of the introduction of my favorite character and a key shift in the narrative; but mostly, a heavy dose of southwest nostalgia.

Ultimately, it's more of that yearning for the desert that a talented writer and a well written story does to me.  And sometimes it's like Tartt is spying on my childhood when she describes the sprawling wasteland of desert, tract housing; or the languid, muffled, and murky laziness of  a heavy curtain drawn against the relentless heat of the desert sun.  How does she do that!??!  Her author bio makes no mention of any residence in the Southwest.  In fact, she seems decidedly east coast (and the portions set in New York make that abundantly clear).  So how on earth does she manage the gritty, dried out, electric charge of a desperate and scrabbling desert upbringing?  How?

Next, let's talk characters.  Before I even got to my favorite character, I was already sold on Theo, which is unusual, as I don't typically like children as narrators. But Theo is wonderful.  Really, all the characters are so perfectly rendered it's remarkable.  They're all real.  Real people that you know right now, that could be sitting in the room with you this very moment.

And it seems the characters can't possibly get any better but then...Boris.  Please understand, I know I tend toward the hyperbolic (*sheepish grin*), but I make not the slightest hesitation when I say that Boris—Boris is absolutely my favorite character, of any book.  Ever.  Stephen King wrote an exceptional review of The Goldfinch for the New York Times, and I will steal his words to tell you about Boris:

...Tartt’s take on the Artful Dodger and this novel’s most brilliantly drawn character. Boris may be a little too naïve about America for such a wise child...but his jittery good humor, boundless energy and flash charm are impossible for Theo — and us — to resist.

Boris is...he's just...I...  Many, many times, this novel destroys my ability to form cohesive sentences. Explaining how much I love Boris is the primary reason for that speechlessness.  What I can say, is that he offers an unexpected, outrageous, charming, and sweetly earnest, wise-beyond-his-years, perspective for all the shit going on in this book and in Theo's life.  He's the friend you wish you'd had...well, most of the time.  Truly, he's perfect.

This review is getting overly long.  So, here's one last favorite thing.  In the end, this novel is about a young man dealing with the shocking death of his mother and the trauma, guilt, and unimaginable loneliness that entails.  But Donna Tartt's delicate mastery keeps this from being the tear-stained, depressive tome it could have been, and moves it into the realm of something redemptive, epic, courageous, and sparkling.

All through the book, there is the subtle, ever-present absence of Theo's mother.  But it's never, ever oppressive.  Sometimes you even forget why Theo's life has so decidedly crumbled around him.  I have no experience with this kind of tragedy, but I imagine that eventually it becomes a sort of constant, dull, pulsing, pain that can be ignored for awhile...until it simply can't.  And that's what Tartt is able to convey.  She isn't constantly reminding you that this kid is a sad, lost orphan.  But every once in awhile, the truth of Theo's loss leaps out of nowhere, surprising the reader and Theo himself.  Tartt delivers a sucker punch of grief and loneliness that takes your breath away and reminds you of what's truly at stake.

So I guess those are a few of my favorite things; Las Vegas, Boris, and soul-shuddering emotion.

In his review, Stephen King compares The Goldfinch to a no-hitter in baseball.

a rarity that comes along perhaps half a dozen times per decade, a smartly written literary novel that connects with the heart as well as the mind. I read it with that mixture of terror and excitement I feel watching a pitcher carry a no-hitter into the late innings. You keep waiting for the wheels to fall off, but in the case of “The Goldfinch,” they never do.

I will say, I disagree here.  As much as I love this book, I am not entirely blind to some of its faults.  It is, after all, 800 pages.  And towards the end, it becomes clear that maybe it doesn't need to be quite so long.  King says that the wheels never fall off.  I think they do, but I also find I don't care.  Because as this wheel-less, Mack Truck of a novel careens toward its outlandish, wild, and treacherous end, there isn't any other author, or any other characters I would rather be hurled off of a cliff with.

On favorite Books & FAVORITE Books: A review of The Goldfinch in two parts

Part One

I have favorite books, and then I have FAVORITE books.  A lot of my favorite books represent different genres, and types of books.  Sometimes they're a series, where it's not simply one book, but the entire collection that has made them favorites (Harry Potter, Ramona, The Moomins).  A lot of times my favorite books are favorites because I think they're beautifully written, or unique and interesting, or I just really like them.  Some of my favorite books include Little Women, Tinkers, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, A Short History of Nearly Everything, Moby Dick, and more recently, Amor and Psycho.  I have a lot of favorite books.

But FAVORITE books...they are a different thing entirely.  These are books that I finish and clutch to my chest, unwilling to let go.  Books that are always well written, but with something more about them that simply stirs me.  Books that I hesitate to recommend to friends because I worry I will think less of those friends should they not feel the same way I do.  These are the books that induce the severest cases of PPD (Post Potter Depression- the feeling one gets after finishing the latest Harry Potter book, knowing that the next Harry Potter book is years away from being released, and realizing that no other book will ever make one happy again).

And these FAVORITES are the books that make me believe, just a little bit, in magic.

FAVORITE books are perfect and painful.  And the list is much shorter, and doesn't seem to fluctuate much.  The Shipping News, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, and Stoner.  Those are my FAVORITES.  Today, I'm adding The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt to the list.

***

Allow me an anecdote to convey the depths of my feelings for this book.

On Monday, heading home from work, I checked Facebook and saw that The Killers had surprise "leaked" their new song.  It's not something I could hear on my phone with any real clarity, so I decided to wait until I was home to listen.  If you are at all unaware of my rather ardent feelings for The Killers, please, just peruse the Killers tag on this blog.  It's a serious, sometimes debilitating obsession.  Actually, maybe don't peruse the Killers tag, it's a bit embarrassing.

But on Monday, heading home from work, I also had just 60 pages left of The Goldfinch (an 800 page book that I tore through in the better part of a week).  Funnily enough, I had started reading it on my recent trip to see The Killers in concert.

SO, when I got home, I curled up in bed and I read.  I finished The Goldfinch.  And I cried.  And then I read the summary and blurbs on the back of the book, and the letter from the editor inside (I was reading an advance copy).  I read the author bio, and the author thanks section.  I went back and read some of my favorite passages and then I read the end again.  And it was 2 hours later until I even remembered there was a new Killers song to listen to.

This book erased The Killers from my mind. This book has powers. This book frightens me.

***

A bit more on the actual book to come.

Amor and Psycho

Once in awhile you come across an author who shifts your belief about what is possible; about what the written word can do and what a short ten page story can make you feel. Carolyn Cooke is one of those authors. And Amor and Psycho will blow your mind.

It's dark and sexy. A little violent, and surprisingly funny at some of the most inappropriate moments. Like life, I guess.

She isn't timid in her exploration of the shitty things we face everyday. Illness, poverty, misogyny, isolation; it's all in here. But minus the bleakness you would expect. Cooke's genius is her ability to connect you to characters and situations far afield from your own life and infuse your experience with compassion, solidarity, and humor. Add her acrobatic, razor sharp writing and BLAMO! mind blown.

I really, really, really loved this book. Can't wait to get my hands on some more of her awesomeness. And mad thanks to Cheryl for pointing me to this.

On Not Reading

Getting back into the "reading for pleasure" mode has proven more difficult than I would have imagined. For one thing, I'm just so damned tired of reading. I want to be outside, to move, to create. Reading seems so physically stagnating right now. And also, so much of what I've been picking up lately just hasn't done it for me. I've stopped reading so many books in the last few weeks, and that's pretty unusual for me. Do I blame the books, or my above noted lack of interest in sitting still?

Books I've stopped reading lately:

Both Flesh and Not  by David Foster Wallace. The first essay in this collection is unbelievable. It's the title essay, about Roger Federer, and it's beautiful. But that was about the only thing in this book that I found myself remotely interested in. A lot of these essays are very early/young DFW, and he hasn't quite come into the literary champion we all know. Also, as a young man, he was WAY too dismissive of female writers. That's about the simplest thing you have to do to get me to stop reading.

The Last Animal  by Abby Geni. So, this one was an advance that I asked for because the promotional material mentioned a story about an ostrich farm in the Arizona desert.  And I thought, "Hey! I know that ostrich farm!" So I tried it. I read the ostrich story. And then the next story. And gave up on the third (which is incidentally the story that got her published). It's just not good. I feel pretty shitty saying that about something that someone obviously poured their heart into, but I take comfort in the fact that no one will read this.

New York Diaries  edited by Teresa Carpenter. I actually quite like this one. I started it as part of my New York reading experience. It's a lot of fun, but one of those books that's just easy to put down. It consists of diary entries spread across the years of 1609-2009. The entries are arranged in a semi-chronological order, following the days of the year. So for any given day you could have entries from 1845, 1912, and 1976, and then the next day, an entry from 1778 and 1943. The diarists range from the ordinary to the well known, like Teddy Roosevelt and Simone de Beauvoir. And the subject matter is about everything; the city, ordinary life, artistic endeavors. It's pretty great. I will finish this one, but it will be one that I read at an intentionally leisurely pace.

Side note: the stunning and sudden change in the weather has put a decided dampening on my need to be outside, which means I've finished 3 books in the last week. Reviews to follow, I suppose...

Battleborn...No, not THAT Battle Born

I know, you think I read this book because of its title.  Well, I'll have you know that I read this book before I had my Killers breakdown.  And I bought this book way back, last fall, when The Killers were just my favorite band (and not my only reason for living). And further, I was only slightly tempted by the fact that both the new Killers album, and the book had the same title...I was all the way tempted by the cover of the book. It's SOOOOOOO pretty!

If you were one of my former Goodreads friends, you may have read this review already.  Well, here's a spruced up version I wrote for my monthly staff pick at the store in an attempt to actually sell the damn thing. I agonized over this review the first time...and I agonized over it again the second time. Anyways, here it is.

***

Battleborn by Claire Vaye Watkins

Okay, halfway through this review, you're gonna ask yourself, "Why is she even recommending this book?"  Just hear me out, okay?

Another reviewer somewhere said, "Watkins shows promise." I think that's a great way to describe this debut collection. I liked many of these stories, absolutely LOVED one or two (and I mean loved with every fiber of my being-LOVED), and was frustrated by the rest.

Sometimes I really trusted Watkins, was drawn in by her obvious need to find hope in the hopeless. But then her genuineness would slip away to reveal a different author, a less confident author, an author working too hard at being provocative. Sure, sex and violence and drugs and prostitution and infidelity are "edgy"; or to use that horribly overused and demeaning adjective (but only actually used to describe a female author when she dares enter the "realm" of "male" writers)..."gritty" (please note all " " in that last sentence are meant to be read as enthusiastically, sarcastic air quotes...and sorry for all the parenthesis). But a story doesn't become provocative simply by their inclusion and in truth, she's at her most provocative and genuine, when her subjects aren't so "edgy". Not surprisingly, Watkins really shines when she isn't working so hard.  Most of the time I just wanted her to get out of her own way, because she does have such...you know, promise.  So try Graceland and The Diggings for some phenomenal writing.

However, what she does do well, she does really well. Her characters are flawed and unlikable in just the right ways, her subjects unique, and sometimes her words simply soar. But what she does best is write about the desert. For as much as a story would be pissing me off, it would be dragging me in with the smell of creosote; the shimmer of heat waves; and that great, big, western sky stretching on for miles. The desert does something to a person, burrows in deep and never leaves. And to be able to capture that and the raw ache and emptiness of missing the desert when not there; that, I find truly remarkable. Watkins is a child of the desert and she writes it well.

I read these stories compulsively, and they are really very good...and if the first part of this review doesn't indicate that it's because I think they could be so much better, I think she could be really great. I DO think she's phenomenal, and she certainly knows her way around a sentence, AND this is the best new book I've read all year. UGH! What this terribly muddled review is trying to tell you is to read this book; it might make you crazy, it will make you cry, and you may just slam it shut from time to time. But you're gonna be compelled to open it back up, again and again. You won't be able to stay away. People, this is your chance to get in on the ground floor of something big...Claire Vaye Watkins is gonna be huge.

***

And now, won't you please enjoy the song Battle Born, off the album Battle Born, while you read my review of the completely unrelated book, Battleborn. Bonus: if you watch the whole video (and you really should) or if you fast forward to 8:44, you'll see the moment that Brandon Flowers and I brush hands...and the world was never the same again.

A Guide for the Perplexed

I'm so lucky that I can get my hands on the brand-spanking-new books of my favorite authors. It's a bookseller perk. And it's a great one. It's so great that if and when I become a lawyer, it will be hard to leave behind. We booksellers do what we do because we love it. Unbelievable as it may be, we don't make the big bucks. You can thank these assholes and a general dismissive, disdain towards retail for that. Bookselling is not your average retail career. I know a lot of lifelong booksellers; people who are smarter than me, and smarter than you. These people sell books because it means something to them; because reading, and getting that perfect book into someone's hands is important to them. It truly is an art. Public service announcement over...

So, back to the topic at hand. As a bookseller, I get to read new stuff before you do (this totally makes me feel super cool). But, I have a hard time reading advance copies from authors I've never read before. So, I love, Love, LOVE when an advance copy surfaces from one of my favorites. It's like Christmas. Truly. And this year has been a banner year for me. Lots of authors I love are emerging from wherever it is they go, and finally putting out new stuff. It's fantastic.

But, it seems that I don't really like my favorites anymore (let's not talk about Michael Chabon). Case in point: I got an advance of Night Film from Marisha Pessl who wrote Special Topics in Calamity Physics, a book I LOVED. Her only book, in fact, which was published way back in...I don't know when, the early 2000's. And so, the fact that she is finally publishing something new is huge. And I got to read it.

And...

I didn't like it. Disappointing, sure. But, they can't always hit it out of the park. Not to be thwarted, when I learned that Dara Horn is finally releasing something new, I was over the moon. The World to Come is one of my all time favorites. In the Image is also fantastic. But, then I read the new one.

I don't really have much to say about it. I finished it a few weeks ago, and nothing really stuck with me. It's about sisters and sibling rivalry, a computer program, a hostage situation, asthmatics (really), unfaithful partners, and of course, Horn's customary shifting timelines and Jewish lore. Now, you should know, it's not bad...it just isn't as good as it could have been; as good as I want it to be. After all, she did have four years to write it. And while it is interesting, just sort of blah. Some big ideas that don't pan out. Characters that just aren't likable, but not unlikable in an interesting way.

I've often thought about changing reading tastes, and I'm sure that has something to do with my current apathetic feelings towards truly talented writers. Law school did mean a three year gap in my career as a reader; there were bound to be some shifts. And I have found some new authors that I'm excited about. Sadly, they are only new to me, most of them being already dead (John Williams, Shirley Jackson, Stella Gibbons, Tove Jansson, Herman Melville). I guess what this all means is that I should be a little more open minded about advance reader copies and maybe pick up a few from authors I've never heard of...or I could just reread Moby Dick.

Stoner by John Williams (not the "composer")

I'm posting a few older reviews that used to be on Goodreads...trying to fill out my virtual bookshelves a little. With a complete lack of humility, I'll tell you that my staff review has made it tough to keep this book in stock at work. I'm even accumulating a bit of a book review following, though a coworker says that they're all "old dudes with mustaches."  She's not wrong, which does seem a bit odd.  I wonder how many of my mustachioed followers have read any of the Jane Austen I've suggested.  At any rate, here's a brief plot synopsis since my review gives you none...and no, it's not about a pothead.

William Stoner is born at the end of the nineteenth century into a dirt-poor Missouri farming family. Sent to the state university to study agronomy, he instead falls in love with English literature and embraces a scholar’s life, so different from the hardscrabble existence he has known. And yet as the years pass, Stoner encounters a succession of disappointments: marriage into a “proper” family estranges him from his parents; his career is stymied; his wife and daughter turn coldly away from him; a transforming experience of new love ends under threat of scandal. Driven ever deeper within himself, Stoner rediscovers the stoic silence of his forebears and confronts an essential solitude.

John Williams’s luminous and deeply moving novel is a work of quiet perfection. William Stoner emerges from it not only as an archetypal American, but as an unlikely existential hero, standing, like a figure in a painting by Edward Hopper, in stark relief against an unforgiving world.

I should also tell you that this will be my number one read of 2013. I am 100% certain that nothing else will come remotely close. My review below...

***

Give me a moment to dry my eyes. I'm still shedding a tear or two today after finishing this book in the wee hours of this morning. I can't say much beyond what's already been said. So I will describe my experience with it.

About half-way through this book I was exhausted. Partly from turning the pages so quickly, but mostly from the unendurable sadness that is William Stoner's life (though even in my exhaustion, I was entranced). And then I realized that while quiet and melancholy, and with its fair share of villains, Stoner's life isn't sad at all.

It's just life.

And then the book opened up to me, or maybe I opened up to it, and I fell in love. I fell in love with William Stoner and his quiet university life. I fell in love with his sweet-tempered, lifelong friend, and even with his scheming enemies. I fell in love with the succession of events that made up this one man's ordinary life, and I fell in love with the way that life moved me.

I can't really explain what it is about this book. Yes; it's well written, filled with living, breathing characters; and perfectly paced. But it's more than that... and I don't have the talent to impress upon you just how beautiful it is. Read the blurbs, and other more eloquent reviewers. More importantly, read the book.

The Blue Book

Two books finished in one week.  Phew.  I'm a reading machine.

A.L. Kennedy is an all-time favorite of mine.  Her writing is unlike anyone else out there.  Her story ideas, truly unique.  If you haven't read her, you're not reading the right things.  The Blue Book is great, while not my favorite of hers, it's right up there (Day is my favorite...read it, NOW).

I would tell you a little about it, but that's hard to do without giving too much away, or diminishing it and making it sound much more mundane than it is.  I will say, it takes place on a boat shuttling retirees from Britain to America, present dayish.  The novel follows the strangely misplaced, younger passengers Beth and mysterious Arthur, and explores the murky past between them...all this happening while Beth's better half suffers from a fiendish bout of sea sickness.  Throw in some psychic mediums, dead mothers, and disappointing fathers along the way, and you have what turns out to be a surprisingly touching, humorous, and heartbreaking novel.  (UGH, would someone please give me a better word for heartbreaking, blech).

Other things about this book:
-The book talks to you, the reader, all while acknowledging that it is a book.
-Beth is the perfect protagonist, because she is you and she is me in all her messed up, selfish, glory.
-And the page numbers skip around in a strange dance that is both exhilarating and unsettling (I never knew how important it was for me to have page numbers in the right order).

I know none of this makes much sense, and it might not make much sense for you even after you read the book.  For me, it didn't seem to matter.  How tidy and sensical (just invented that word, opposite of nonsensical...duh) are our lives anyway?

A.L. Kennedy is not a gentle writer.  She's raw, cunning, and crude.  Most of her books are complete mindfucks, and this one is no exception.  But her acrobatic writing will leave you dizzy and breathless and hooked.  She's phenomenal, like I said, if you haven't read her, you're not reading the right things.

And you're a reader- clearly- here you are reading your book, which is what it was made for.  It loves when you look, wakes when you look, and then it listens and it speaks.  It was built to welcome your attention and reciprocate with this: the sound it lifts inside you.  It gives you the signs for the shapes of the names of the thoughts in your mouth and in your mind and this is where they sing, here at the point where you both meet.

Which is where you might imagine, might even elicit, the tremble of paper, that unmistakable flinch.  It moves for you, your book, and it will always show you all it can.

Just take a moment, read that out loud, and tell me you didn't get shivers.  And that's just from the first page!

Poison Penmanship

I finally finished a book. Unbelievable. And one I have been reading since..maybe March. I have no idea since I no longer have Goodreads to tell me when I started it. This book is just one more example of the genius going on at New York Review of Books. I have yet to read a stinker from their entire collection, and count two of their "rediscovered" titles as favorites (Stoner and The Summer Book). At any rate here's a little review:

Poison Penmanship: The Gentle Art of Muckraking by Jessica Mitford

Jessica Mitford is delightful. Self-deprecating, charming, and witty, with a definite grasp of the ridiculous. This is a collection of some of her more popular magazine pieces, most of them restored to the original form she intended. Mitford's writing style reminds me a lot of Shirley Jackson in her memoir Life Among the Savages (which is also amazing, and highly recommended).

Part of what makes this collection so great are the personal comments at the end of each piece. There you'll find anecdotes on the writing process, things she wished she'd done differently, parts of the story that didn't make it in the final piece, and most enjoyable of all, behind the scenes looks at some of the more dubious characters she encounters. For the best laughs and enjoyment, try: Don't Call it Syphilis, Maine Chance Diary, My Short and Happy Life as a Distinguished Professor, and Let Us Now Appraise Famous Writers. For more somber and social justice-canted works, head for Trial by Headline and A Talk With George Jackson.

Incidentally, Mitford claims that her sister coined the term "frenemies" in what must have been the 1920s or 30s, a claim that could require some muckraking of its own