GOLDFINCH by Donna Tartt

what if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted? what if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self immolation, disaster. if your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? stop your ears with wax? ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? set yourself on the coarse that will lead you dutifully toward the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement, the New York Times and brunch on sunday , all with the promise of being somehow a better person? or is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name.

its not about outward appearance but inward significance. a grandeur in the world, but not of the world, a grandeur that the world does not understand. that first glimpse of pure otherness, in whose presence you bloom out and out and out. a self one does not want, a heart one cannot help.