The Goldfinch is a tome. I started yesterday morning and managed about 200 pages thus far. The story, about a 13-year-old boy who survived an explosion in a New York museum that killed his mother, is a slow-churned one. Unlike the lackluster Little Friend, this one (at least for now) feels like an all-nighter (but I won’t stay up all night unless I’m on vacation). It’s an old-fashioned story of loss and obsession, survival and machinations of fate. By old-fashioned, I mean a continuous progression of a story front that hooks the reader. This modest boy has just lost his mother in a tragedy. He is left without a guardian since his father had long abandoned him and his mom. It’s very Dickens-ish but more modern in scope. There is no better thing than to immerse in a good book of which every page intrigues. It’s a change from literary fiction and mind-boggling mysteries.