Okay, this novel won the Pulitzer prize for literature; is the favored child of book critics all over and is considered to be one of the finest examples of "literature" (yes, there is a reason I used parentheses) written in the past several years.
It's not. It's definitely not. It's not even a good book, let alone literature. "The Goldfinch" is a hot mess and I'm guessing the great and grand and vaunted critics of the NYT's, VOGUE, Atlantic Monthly, etc. etc just collectively drank the damn koolaid. They probably didn't even attempt to read it.
It so reminds me of fashion designers who create the most ridiculous, ugly and truly heinous designs; smack an exorbitant price on their clothes and then sit back and watch as a bunch of naive fools buy into the whole hype.
I have no clue as to who started the tsunami of reviews,word of mouth, lit. specs., whathaveyou that propelled this book into the literary stratosphere. But, if I ever do find out who started this adulation and adoration of a book not worthy of any said praise I'm going to send them the entire oeuvre of James Lee Burke, a nice collection of John D. MacDonald, Dennis Lehane and I'll toss in the short stories of F.Scott and P.G. Wodehouse just for good measure.
So. Yeah, I'm panning the book. Don't bother. It's smug dreck and not worth anyone's time.
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