I have a book club going on here and we just finished a story called the "The Goldfinch." It was an interesting story. Tragic and beautiful. A story of a trauma victim, the secret/illegal position of a priceless painting, detachment, drug abuse and criminal friends. At times, I hated the style of the author (It took 10 years to write so I expect that the grammar errors were intentional, shudder) but all told it was a decent, if not long, read. I suppose I could call it relate-able in that I have seen the life it portrayed for a time in Vegas and I could confirm the reality of it to my European and Australian book mates. But it was not a book that I considered Quotable or one that touched me personally. At least not until the last few pages where the story's main character is reflecting on how he came to put his story into the words we have just read. He is reflecting on his journals. How they are filled with personal letters to his dead mother, Notes from the interactions with his mentor, dreams, social moments and other misc. gobble de gook. I can relate to how fragmented notebooks become. Anyway, he explores the notion that despite the fact that he omits all discussion of the painting (his secret) he sees it on every page that he has ever written. In his own words:
"Because: if our secrets define us, as opposed to the face we show the world: then the painting was the secret that raised me above the surface of life and enabled me to know who I am. And it's there: in my notebooks, every page, even though it's not. Dream and magic, Magic and delirium. The Unified Field Theory. A secret about a secret."
He also delves into the necessity to find joy among the horrors.
Anyway, the book is done and on the shelf it goes. Whew. Time to read something light and fun.
