One of the gifts I asked for at Christmas was The Goldfinch, a novel by Donna Tartt. Honestly, I had no idea what the book was about, other than that it centered around the fate of a famous painting from 17th century Rembrandt contemporary Carel Fabritius. And let's be real, even then I had to look up the painting because my art history education is severely lacking. What I discovered upon the novel's conclusion was that it voiced an internal struggle that I (and hopefully a collective "we" with others in my generation) have been unable to articulate since reaching my mid-twenties.
The capability of a book to express what I cannot in my own words is what makes me love it. That is what Fitzgerald did for me in The Great Gatsby, and that is what Tartt has done for me in The Goldfinch.
The Goldfinch: novel, and image of the painting. Image courtesy of Chefdruck blog, which also gives a pretty good review. http://chefdruck.com/2014/02/the-goldfinch-by-donna-tartt/
I've often struggled with my choices in life. My generation tends to be compulsive, and I am no exception. It's hard to see where I'm going. Some days I feel I have no purpose, and really all I can do is live in the "now." I often feel inadequate; like I'm not giving enough, or participating enough. Whereas throughout my academic career I was a "big fish in a little pond" (or so my inflated ego allowed me to believe), I now feel like I'm just another ant marching, another statistic, another Millenial caught up in a world of increasing (anti)social media and declining social grace. Meanwhile, it seems my friends find purpose and happiness in their work, or their marriages, or their pets, or their children.
Sometimes I am sad about this. But most times, I am honestly (and a little ashamed to be) somewhat content. It is what it is. Maybe even though I make "bad" choices, or do "bad" things, like go to a bar rather than join a community group, that's just who I am. And who's to say that's "bad?" Maybe those choices aren't so bad.
Again, here I am vomiting up a conglomeration of existential nonsense, when I should really just quote Tartt who says it so perfectly:
Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?
Now, I have not spun into a world of art theft, habitual drug use, and other international criminal activity, as does the protagonist of The Goldfinch. And I do have friends and family that I love and trust and am truly blessed to have. But I cannot help identify with his internal struggle of being "good" vs. being "bad;" of giving in to what you want rather than doing what you "should."
And that is why I highly recommend this book to Gen Y-ers...and really anyone else who might revel a little bit in being "bad." Seriously. Borrow my copy. But I need you to give it back because I want to read it again.
All for now, more to come.
-A
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