The Goldfinch by Donna TarttMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
I dislike being that cranky curmudgeon who does not find what others are enthusing about in a book. However reluctant I am to admit that I cannot get on board the Donna Tartt train, the truth is, I am unable to join the flock trilling praises for THE GOLDFINCH.
I couldn't wait to finish the book because I was anxious to be done with it. With one exception, the worlds that Theo inhabits are never anywhere that I want to be, and so I was itchy to turn the pages as quickly as possible so I could get the hell out of wherever he was.
My greatest criticism with the character Tartt has drawn is this: if Theo is so stinkin' bright, how can he be so naive--scratch that; as long as I'm being honest--stupid as to not know anything about life insurance benefits, or how to convey the facts about his abusive grandparents and alcoholic father to adults who can help? Why does he go so unprotesting from safety and a summer spent sailing to the desert of his father's care? Not even PTSD, or an unresolved Daddy-complex can explain this level of naivete. Theo's extreme "I'm out of it" innocence reflects the mentality of, say, a normal five-year-old.
To my way of thinking, Tartt's first person POV is written from much too great a distance. We all have certain blind spots about ourselves, but Theo's are so massive they defy credibility. I tried to believe Tartt when she told me that Theo was brilliant. However, there is too much about what he does that contradicts his literary mother's bragging rights. The best I can give her is that she created a character whose black-out drunkenness is mirrored by the black-holes in his brain.
Tartt's philosophical wrap-up is lovely. But in a book of 756 pages, that's just not enough loveliness to counterbalance the hours spent reading about puking and vomit, mindless materialism, and bloodied, drugged, wasted human potential. Ugh. Get me outta here.
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