Excerpts from The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, pt.1

"Through the dusty windows I saw Staffordshire ceramic dogs and majolica cats, dusty crystals, dull silver, antique chairs and canapes upholstered with old and faded brocades, an elaborate faience cage, miniature marble obelisks on a marble-topped table and a pair of alabaster cockatoos."

"Suddenly she sat down, wrapped her arms around me and kissed me; all the blood ran from my head, a long descent, as if I was falling off a cliff." "I... - I was terrified." Stunned, reflexively, I put my hand over my mouth to dry the kiss - only it wasn't soaked or unpleasant and I could feel a trace of it glowing on the back of my hand." "I don't want you to go." "I don't to go." "Do you remember seeing me?" "When?" "Before." "No." "I remember you, I said." Somehow my hand found its way to her face. Puzzled, I stepped back and tucked her in beside me, clenching my fist, practically sitting on top of her." "I was there." That's when I realised Hobie was at the door."

"But as I was leaving, as we crossed the photo-lined corridor, passing Pippa's room with a light on, Cosmo sleeping at the foot of her bed, Hobie said, opening the front door for me: "Theo." “Yes?” “You have my address and my phone.” “Of course.” “Well then.” He looked almost as uncomfortable as me. “I hope you have a good trip. Take care of yourself.” “You too,” I said. We looked at each other. “Right.” “Right. Good night, then.” He jerked the door open, and I left the house — for the last time, I thought. But while I thought I'd never see him again, I was wrong in that."

"During the morning break (when they gathered us and made us go out to a wire-fenced courtyard near the sandwich machines), I would be in the darkest corner I could find with my pocket edition and, with a red pencil, would go reading and underlining several particularly encouraging quotes: "The mass of men lead a life of mute despair." “Stereotypical but unconscious despair lurks even under the so-called games and amusements of mankind.” What Thoreau would have thought of Las Vegas: its lights and its hubbub, its trash and its delusions, its projections and hollow facades."

"His complexity was a sign that I could not decipher, although the general meaning was very clear: different tribe, forget it, I'm too cool for you, don't even try to talk to me. That was my first misguided impression of the only friend I made when I was in Vegas and, in the end, one of the best friends I ever had."

“Do you think I hit girls?” I asked. He shrugged. "Maybe she deserved it." "Um, we don't beat women here." He frowned, spit out an apple seed. "No. Americans only chase smaller countries that think differently from them."

"How did I end up in that strange new life where drunken strangers screamed around me at night, all my clothes were dirty, and no one loved me? Boris — oblivious — was snoring beside me. Finally, near dawn, when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of my mother: sitting in front of me on subway line 6, swaying softly, her face calm under the artificial lights flickering. What are you doing here?, she said. Go home! Right now! See you at the apartment. Only there was something wrong with her voice; and when I looked closer I saw that it was definitely not her, just someone pretending to be her. Then, panting and startling, I woke up."

"Bastard and Casey! That's hard, eh? Casey, all right, but call his own kid 'Bastard' on holiday television?" "That's not what he said." "Fine, then, you know everything, what did he say?" "How should I know what the fuck?" "Then why do you argue with me? Why do you think you always know better? What is the problem with this country? How did so stupid nation get to be so arrogant and rich? Americans... movie stars... TV people... they name their kids like Apple and Blanket and Bear and Bastard and all kind of crazy things." "And your point is?" "My point is like, democracy is excuse for any fucking thing. Violence... greed... stupidity... anything is ok if Americans do it. Right? Am I right?"

"Interestingly, among all things, I had worried that Boris was a little too affectionate, if affectionate is the right word. The first time he'd turned in bed and wrapped his arm around my waist, I lay half-awake for a moment, not knowing what to do: staring at my old socks on the floor, empty beer bottles, my pocket edition from 'The Red Badge of Courage'. Finally, embarrassed, I faked a yawn and tried to roll away, but he sighed and pulled me closer with a sleepy snug motion. Shh, Potter, he whispered in the back of my neck. It's just me."

"For hours we watched the clouds rearrange into intelligent patterns; we rolled over, believing it was seaweed; We lay on our backs and sang 'Dear Prudence' to the welcoming and appreciative stars, one of the great nights of my life, in fact, despite what happened next."

"Boris, I realized, was looking up at the sky and humming to himself a phrase from one of my mom's Velvet Underground songs: But if you close the door... the night could last forever..."

"I was still chattering when Boris said, Potter, before I could answer, he put both hands on my cheek and kissed me on the mouth. While I was still blinking, it was over before I realized what had happened, he took Popper by the front legs and kissed him, too, a popped kiss on the tip of his nose. Then he held it out to me. "Your cab is right there," he said, giving Popper one last pat. And in fact, when I turned around, a sedan was slowly coming across the street, scanning the addresses. We stared at each other, me breathing hard, completely stunned. "Good luck," said Boris. "I will not forget you". Then he patted Popper's head. "Bye Popchyk. Take care of him, okay?" He said to me. Later, in the cab and then, I replayed that moment in my mind and was amazed to have waved and walked away so casually. Why I hadn't grabbed his arm and begged him one last time to get in the car, come on, fuck, Boris, it's like missing school, we'll be having breakfast over cornfields when the sun comes up. I knew him well enough to know that if I asked him that way, at the right time, he would do almost everything; and just as I was turning I knew he would have run after me and thrown himself into the car laughing if I had asked for one last time. But I did not ask. And actually, maybe it was better that way. I say that now, although it was something I bitterly regretted for a while. Most of all, I was relieved that, in my unusual chatterbox state, it prevented me from letting out what was on the tip of my tongue, what I never said, even though it was something we both knew very well without I needed to say out loud to him on the street that it was, of course, I love you."

His expression was slightly irritated; for a moment to make my heart stop, I thought he didn't recognize me either, and then, "God in heaven!" he said, backing away suddenly. "It's me," I said quickly. I was afraid he'd close the door in my face. "Theodore Decker. Remember?" Quickly, Pippa looked up at him, clearly she recognized my name, even though she didn't recognize me. And the friendly surprise on their faces caused me such astonishment that I began to cry. "Theo". His hug was strong and fatherly and so intense it made me cry even more.

"Why, I thought sadly, as he returned with his overcoat on his arm, why hadn't my mother married someone like him? Or like Mr. Bracegirdle? Someone with whom she really had something in common, older, perhaps, good-looking, someone who liked galleries, string quartets and time-keeping in tallow, someone thoughtful, cultured, lovely? Who would have understood her, bought her nice clothes and taken her to Paris on her birthday, and given her the life she deserved? It wouldn't have been hard for my mom to find someone like that if she had tried."

"And the weird thing was, I knew most people didn't see her the way I did, on the contrary, they found her a little weird with her crooked step and ghostly reddening pallor. For some stupid reason I had always prided myself on being the only person in the world who really appreciated her, that Pippa would be shocked, moved, and maybe even see herself in a whole different way if she just knew how beautiful she was to me. But that had never happened. Angrily, I focused on her flaws, deliberately studying the photos that took her at embarrassing ages and at less flattering angles: long nose, thin cheeks, eyes (despite the dazzling color) naked with her clear lashes, ordinary in the Huck Finn fashion. But all these aspects were so tender and private to me that they drove me to despair. With a beautiful girl I could have comforted myself thinking she was out of my reach; the fact that I was so haunted and tormented even by the simple things about her ominously suggested a love stronger than physical affection, a soul-pit where I could throw myself and let myself be for years."