I just finished The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, and I loved it immensely. You may know Tartt as the author of The Secret History, the book Dark Academics have made popular again. I liked The Secret History, but like most first novels it was rough in places. It was grasping for something it couldn’t quite reach, thematically speaking. The Goldfinch, though, was deep and resonant throughout. Tartt shows us a world full of loss and drugs and high art that’s a bit fantastical but emotionally completely real and intense.

Theo, the narrator, survives a museum bombing that killed his mother. In the confusion, he takes a small painting, The Goldfinch, and stuffs it in his backpack. We follow Theo as he grows up traumatized and lonely, trying to find connection and healing, with the painting his greatest comfort and biggest worry. The plot is fairly simple; it’s the characters I found compelling and often charming. The book moves slowly, allowing us to know these people deeply and become totally invested in what happens to them and the painting.

I connected not only with the characters, but with the blending of pain and beauty this book explores. It was deeply moving and felt true to me. This is a world I will visit again and again.

There is now a movie adaptation of this book. It’s not very well-rated, and it’s hard to imagine how they could do the book justice. With so little plot and such deeply realized characters, I expect it would be nearly impossible to really capture them in just a couple of hours. I’ll probably watch the film eventually, but for now I think I’ll just cherish the book itself.