Book : The Goldfinch

After 3 weeks of The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt, the 962 pages of slow journey with Theo Decker on surviving his dreadful life after the death of his beloved mother. A painstakingly draggy story with too many detailed descriptions over everything. It can be beautiful, if there wasn't too many tiny mentions of things and if the pace is not too slow.

This wasn't my favorite. It reminds me of Lionel Shriver, the author of "We need to talk about Kevin", too wrapped up with their abundance-knowledge-on-extravagant-words-and-miniscule -descriptions.


"And you love her, yes. But not too much."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you are not mad, or wild, or grieving! You are not roaring out to choke her with your own bare hands! Which means your soul is not too mixed up with hers. And that is good. Here is my experience. Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you. What you want to live and be happy in the world is a woman who has her own life and lets you have yours.


A great sorrow, and one that I am not only beginning to understand : we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are.

What is one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted -?
What is the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster? If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight towards the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the preserve glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationship and steady career advancement, the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person?
Or - is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?


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