Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only - if you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? And isn’t the whole point of things - beautiful things - that they connect you to some larger beauty? Those first images that crack your heart wide open and you spend the rest of your life chasing, or trying to recapture, in one way or another?
-The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt
Not only is this a beautiful, evocative, and wonderfully drawn novel, I was lucky enough to see The Goldfinch painting itself at The Frick a few months ago. Afterwards, there was no choice but to read this book.
In a way, it’s good timing. I’ve been thinking about how to reconcile strong feelings about art and culture into the professional sphere, and I’m growing increasingly discouraged by the whole endeavor. I’m tired of how people who concentrate on such things are so blind to other, dare I say it, more pressing realities. At the same time, one wants to maintain something pure about art, something personal, something raw. The Goldfinch ties together family, art, urban spaces, PTSD, friendship, and love forged under circumstances so terrible that the bond, though unbreakable, will forever remain unstable. The prose is beautiful, the tone is Dickensian without the drudgery, and the nihilism is unforgiving. It’s a novel for anyone who has been disturbingly attached to things, things that persist despite a world that peels away its own tragedies on the periphery.
OH MY GOD SERIOUSLY CLICK THE LINK
A sign of truth.
I’m positive I’ve reblogged this before. And I’m positive I’ll reblogged this again.