Martin is truly a terrifying name to run into.
A quick bit about the last 20 pages. It’s that ramble of philosophy that pulls away the meat of a narrative, leaving the bone of an intention, even if its a meditation on the ambiguity of the human. Tartt refreshes with a Xandra call or proper noun, but it’s Theo’s thoughts pouring out, and made of special note to be written words, moving him from a third-person narrator into an authorship, referring to his scribbles and diving down into them, cf. Hobbie’s tips. I’m reminded of Galapagos and the ghostly Trout-son writing his words in the air. I think it’s that Vonnegut anyway. It’s also the art lesson cram, the mediation on the painting itself saved for the last bits, with only the rigor of craft for the furniture and parting (literally?) words from dear old mom. I’m also reminded of the final page of Adam Cadre’s Ready? Okay! and the narrator revealing his mirror memory, capturing ever detail down, with the accuracy of a photo, but the coloring is all words. Timber the timbre.
Let’s look as some words. I know I forgot to mark the chocolate one. Started with G. Continue reading