I read widely from many genres. Perhaps this blog will feature fewer ratings and reviews, but I certainly intend to write about my reading life - it's the subject I most find myself wanting to talk about.
Donna Tartt's "The Goldfinch" deserves every inch of praise that has been sent its way. I know a few people who have commented that at 771 pages, they couldn't finish it, but I read it twice in two months - first over the three-day Labor Day weekend, then again more slowly through October.
It has been rightly noted that "The Goldfinch" takes its place among the great Bildungsromans. The book also pays more than a nodding homage to the great Russian epics. But to my mind it also belongs in the pantheon of New York stories. Yes, there are significant side trips into the exurbs of Las Vegas and the Amsterdam underworld, but for the majority of the story the reader is steeped in a classic sampling of the places and people that make up New York City (pretty much just white people, unfortunately, but you can't do everything in one book).
I loved "The Goldfinch." After hearing book bloggers and podcasters rave about Tartt's "A Secret History," I do believe that my summer reading list for 2016 has its first entry. But this one will stay with me, its overall impression is that great. One scene, particularly, will probably haunt me all my days. Anyone want to sponsor my trip to The Mauritshuis so I can visit the painting?