I’m halfway through The Goldfinch, and as I read it, I cannot help but wonder who the hell is this Donna Tartt chick? So I did some digging.
As you may have guessed, she’s the author of The Goldfinch, which won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 2014. She is also the author of The Secret History and The Little Friend. She was also named one of Time’s Most Influential People in 2014.
I was pleasantly surprised to see that she’s from Mississippi and went to the University of Mississippi, where she was recognized early for her work in writing.
I’ve been wanting to read The Goldfinch for awhile — I actually purchased it many months ago, but per usual, I had to put it on my list of things to read. Now that I’m finally reading it, it’s very good, it’s just finding the time to read it that’s taking me so long.
In the meantime, I’ve saved articles and clips on the book, because I want to read them, but I’m scared of spoilers. However, I ventured (cautiously) into one I found in Vanity Fair, “It’s Tartt — But is it Art?“
The article confirms any rumors about the book being turned into a film — it is! And mentions the fact that The Goldfinch sat on the New York Times Bestseller list for more than seven months, selling nearly two million copies.
The article covers the battle between being a bestselling author, to one that’s respected by critics — an interesting battle. While some of the critics loved The Goldfinch (obviously), others thought it was overwritten and that her words belonged in a children’s book. That we now live in a world where adults read Harry Potter.
The thing is, so far, I’ve loved Tartt’s ability to tell a story, particularly her detailed descriptions. I like knowing that right in my purse, or wherever, there’s another world waiting for me — it makes my breaks from work incredibly interesting.
I’m sure I’ll write another blog post when I finish, but for now, I’ll leave you with a quote from The Goldfinch:
When I looked at the painting I felt the same convergence on a single point: a sunstruck instant that existed now and forever. Only occasionally did I notice the chain on the finch’s ankle, or think what a cruel life for a living creature — fluttering briefly, forced always to land in the same hopeless place.