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S'està carregant… The Goldfinch (2013 original; edició 2014)| 10,843 | 675 | 457 | 
(3.95) | 1 / 698 | A young boy in New York City, Theo Decker, miraculously survives an accident that takes the life of his mother. Alone and abandoned by his father, Theo is taken in by a friend's family and struggles to make sense of his new life. In the years that follow, he becomes entranced by one of the few things that reminds him of his mother; a small, mysteriously captivating painting that ultimately draws Theo into the art underworld.… (més) |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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| Pel·lícules relacionades |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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| Premis i honors |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. The absurd does not liberate; it binds.
ALBERT CAMUS  #part 5: We have art in order not to die from the truth - Nietzsche #part 2: When we are strongest - who draws back? Most merry - Who falls down laughing? When we are very bad, - what can they do to us? - Arthur Rimbaud. | |
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| Dedicatòria |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. For Mother, For Claude | |
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| Primeres paraules |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. While I was still in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years. | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. It seemed like the kind of room where a call girl or a stewardess would be murdered on television. He's telling you that living things don't last--it's all temporary. Death in life. That's why they're called natures mortes. Maybe you don't see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer--there it is. Every new event--everything I did for the rest of my life--would only separate us more and more: days she was no longer a part of, an ever-growing distance between us. Every single day for the rest of my life, she would only be further away. But sometimes, unexpectedly, grief pounded over me in waves that left me gasping; and when the waves washed back, I found myself looking out over a brackish wreck which was illumined in a light so lucid, so heartsick and empty, that I could hardly remember that the world had ever been anything but dead. When I looked at the painting I felt the same convergence on a single point: a flickering sun-struck instant that existed now and forever. Only occasionally did I notice the chain on the finch's ankle, or think what a cruel life for a little living creature--fluttering briefly, forced always to land in the same hopeless place. I looked like some cult-raised kid just rescued by local law enforcement, brought blinking from some basement stocked with firearms and powdered milk. Even in some smoky post-catastrophe Manhattan, you could imagine him swaying genially at the door in the rags of his former uniform, the Barbours up in the apartment burning old National Geographics for warmth, living off gin and tinned crabmeat. The problem (as I'd learned, repeatedly) was that thirty-six hours in, with your body in full revolt, and the remainder of your un-opiated life stretching out bleakly ahead of you like a prison corridor, you needed some fairly compelling reason to keep moving forward into darkness, rather than falling straight back into the gorgeous feather mattress you'd so foolishly abandoned. To understand the world at all, sometimes you could only focus on a tiny bit of it, look very hard at what was close to hand and make it stand in for the whole... I was different, but it wasn't. As the light flickered over it in bands, I had the queasy sense of my own life, in comparison, as a patternless and transient burst of energy, a fizz of biological static just as random as the street lamps flashing past. Who was it said that coincidence was just God's way of remaining anonymous? ...beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are. And as much as I'd like to believe there's a truth beyond illusion, I've come to believe that there's no truth beyond illusion. Because, between 'reality' on the one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality, there's a middle zone, a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and all magic. “You’d be surprised...what small everyday things can lift us out of despair. But nobody can do it for you. You’re the one who has to watch for the open door.” (Mrs. Swanson) When we are sad...it can be comforting to cling to familiar objects, to the things that don’t change. (Hobie) It was the secret no one told you, the thing you had to learn for yourself: viz. that in the antiques trade there was really no such thing as a “correct” price. Objective value—list value—was meaningless. If a customer came in clueless with money in hand (as most of them did) it didn’t matter what the books said, what the experts said, what similar items at Christie’s had recently gone for. An object—any object was worth whatever you could get somebody to pay for it. (Theo) “Oh, Theo! Isn’t he adorable? Kitsey unexpectantly thrusting a friend’s newborn at me—me in all sincere horror leaping back as if from a lighted match. What you want to live and be happy in this world is a woman who has her own life and lets you have yours.(Boris) | |
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| Darreres paraules |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next. (Clica-hi per mostrar-ho. Compte: pot anticipar-te quin és el desenllaç de l'obra.) | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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| Creadors de notes promocionals a la coberta |
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. | |
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▾Referències Referències a aquesta obra en fonts externes.  Wikipedia en anglès (1)
▾Descripcions del llibre A young boy in New York City, Theo Decker, miraculously survives an accident that takes the life of his mother. Alone and abandoned by his father, Theo is taken in by a friend's family and struggles to make sense of his new life. In the years that follow, he becomes entranced by one of the few things that reminds him of his mother; a small, mysteriously captivating painting that ultimately draws Theo into the art underworld. ▾Descripcions provinents de biblioteques No s'han trobat descripcions de biblioteca. ▾Descripció dels membres de LibraryThing |
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The Goldfinch SPOILERS ALLOWED
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