The Goldfinch, Cold and Warm

Fall, insofar as it exists in Southern California, is shy of daytime. It slinks in at night and, on lucky mornings, leaves its misty remnants. Running through the cool fog felt like an appropriate way to listen to Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch. 

 

Even the hot dessert scenes in The Goldfinch are chilly and fuzzy. All characters, all intimacy, all connection are described in a way that feels fragile as ice. Here today, but tomorrow, we'll see what the temperature is.

This is the perfect atmosphere for a book about tragic death, substance abuse, and the disorientation of trauma and panic. Everything human is transient and undependable. 

*Spoilers follow*

Except for Hobie. Hobie is as warm, deep, hard and soft, as any piece of heirloom furniture. Hobie, like all of the decor, fixtures, textiles and furniture, is safe to love. He is as beloved as art, and just like art, must be protected to the very degree that he offers solace. 

 

Savvy young Theo sees the world through his double-barrel lens early on. All is beautiful and all is hopeless even before his mother is killed. Theo Decker has low expectations of people and high expectations of art. When his mother dies and everyone else in his life fails him to varying degrees, he is not surprised or disappointed. He remains, for the most part, nonplussed by human failure until the book's end. Here, we learn that his disappointment is reserved for himself, and for, you know, all of life in general.

Like most of the books I listen to, I borrowed The Goldfinch on Libby. Thanks Orange County Public Libraries. It's 32hours and 24minutes, and narrated by David Pittu, who did a smashing job all around, but especially with Boris.

This book left me feeling like people are tiny cold intruders in a world of rich things. That's nothing like my actual world view, and I'm thankful for the chance to dip my toe in this other realm.