I know it's been rather quiet over here. It's been strange. A bit restless. A bit overtired. A bit scattered. A bit of wandering around the house aimlessly. A bit of Glenn Miller filling the air. A bit of smoothie making. A bit of picking up this, picking up that. A bit of reading here and there. A lot of not settling on anything.
It's been over a week now since I finished reading The Goldfinch and a strange residue remains; I can't quite shake the characters; scenes pop into my mind a bit like my own memories; the density of the writing still hasn't dissolved. It's a strange, restless space. I have a whole pile of new books lined up already, but I can't seem to settle on anything. My fingers trace them out, explore their awaiting covers, partly curious, but my mind is still tethered to The Goldfinch. I can't seem to drag myself away.
"But what does the painting say about Fabritius himself? Nothing about religious or romantic or familial devotion; nothing about civic awe or career ambition or respect for wealth and power. There's only a tiny heartbeat and solitude, bright sunny wall and a sense of no escape. Time that doesn't move, time that couldn't be called time. And trapped in the heart of light: the little prisoner, unflinching." (Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch)
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