That mysterious and ineffable bond which unites all those who abandon themselves joyfully to the mystery of the Truth and Love which govern our very existence, even if we do not know it

Through the underworld to transcendence

by Michael Kirke

Donna Tartt's splendid third novel The Goldfinch 

is a sharp critique of corrupt Western culture

This novel is a real challenge. It is not for the faint-hearted, depicting as it does, the dysfunctional youth culture which gave us tragedies as far apart as that ofPhilip Seymour Hoffman and the invasion of rural Ireland by the silly, but for some, self-destructive fad of “neknomination” – and all the aberrations of the post-modern adult world in which they have their roots.

Hoffman, a 46-year-old actor, was found dead in his New York apartment after injecting himself with a dose of Ace of Spades, a lethal mix of heroin and a powerful anti-cancer drug which has already claimed dozens of lives. There has been a huge rise in heroin use in the United States, and particularly the boosted materials like Ace of Spades - used by the young, the affluent and the middle class.

On the other side of the Atlantic two Irish lives were sacrificed on the altar of youth hedonism in the latest instance of the 'neknomination' game. The craze originally began in Australia and involves social media users 'downing' a drink – which are sometimes lethal cocktails - on camera, before nominating a friend to do the same.

But despite its depiction of this disturbing contemporary American underworld this is a superb novel. If its author tells us that the reason it took 11 years to write is that this is what it takes her to do justice to what she wants to write, then we will take her at her word.

Our regret is that it probably means that we will only get two or three more novels of this quality in her writer’s lifetime. She began her first novel, The Secret History, at 19 years of age and finished it about ten years later in 1992. The next, The Little Friend, appeared in 2002. Both of these have been translated into over thirty languages. They are both great books but neither of them rises to the level of transcendence of The Goldfinch.

This novel is above all else – and it is many things – an eschatological discourse. The basic plot has been well-flagged in reviews: a 13-year-old boy from a broken home is effectively orphaned when he and his mother are victims of a terrorist’s bomb in a New York art museum; she dies, he is traumatised; he staggers from the wreckage but takes with him, prompted by an encounter with a dying man, a small painting of the eponymous goldfinch. It is the work of a Dutch master, Carel Fabritius (1622-54) who also died in an explosion shortly after painting it.

The existence of this painting and Theo’s possession of it, his possessiveness about it, pervade the novel from beginning to end, in one way or another – both as a source of inspiration and as a curse. The beauty of the object, its history and the tragic life of its creator haunt him. But his obsession about it and mysterious attachment to it also corrupt him in a way which makes him vulnerable and ultimately slide into a drug-fuelled world where deceit, disloyalty, betrayal and degradation are standard behaviour.

This story, unfolding over 700-plus pages, is at times infuriating, as Theo moves from boyhood to young manhood, blundering from one catastrophe to another, mostly self-inflicted. In the end, however, without spoiling (I hope) the denouement, a wisdom descends and Theo’s reflection on his life, its meaning and mystery, rescue him – and us – from the pit of despair towards which for most of the narrative we seemed to be heading. There is a great deal of misery in this novel – but is not of the ‘mis-lit’ genre.


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