A review by raleigh
The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

5.0

It's hard to describe the way your heart can be so physically and forcibly moved by a particular book. Because I know that on almost every level there is no person but myself that will understand the connection that I could have felt for a character whose life was similar to mine in only very minute ways; or the way in which a single sentence could have thrown me into that kind of ugly crying where your face scrunches up and you're holding onto your knees with all your strength because you've been reminded that life is bleak and life is cruel and it feels like nobody understands but this one character and he isn't even real; and then you're crying again because you didn't know a sentence could be that beautiful--the words rolling off your tongue as you read it aloud to an empty apartment, more beautiful on the lips than in your head, an elegant validation of your own thoughts that you hadn't even known you had, not really, more just random bits and bobs that disappeared at the slightest dog bark, door slamming, alarm clock, almost like you had never even thought them at all.

Maybe you won't feel the connection that I did. Maybe you're nothing like Theo or Boris or even, perhaps, Tartt. Maybe you can't relate to feeling the despair that comes with having a soul that doesn't want what's best for you, that knowingly and willfully leads you down a path of self-destruction. But doesn't every person's heart want what is bad for them, at least some of the time? No? Then, what does that make me?