I was cast away in the New York created by Donna Tartt in The Goldfinch. And when I was walking down Central Park West this past Saturday, with the gray clouds looming overhead and the brisk wind burning my face, I couldn’t help but look across the park and think of Theo. The Met becomes even more beautiful, art more enigmatic. The East Side spilling with secrets and sadness behind the beautiful facades; and the West Village, home to one antique dealer, furniture restorer, from another era altogether. Since so many critics, bloggers, and book lovers have already written reviews about The Goldfinch, I will not review the book here. I just wanted to express how much I loved this book and encourage you to read it too (if you haven’t already).
“It happened in New York, April 10th, nineteen years ago. Even my hand balks at the date. I had to push to write it down, just to keep the pen moving on the paper. It used to be a perfectly ordinary day, but now it sticks up on the calendar like a rusty nail.” Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch.