Donna Tartt built her latest novel around a 350-year-old portrait of a goldfinch.
Best line: “No amount of straining for high-flown uplift can disguise the fact that The goldfinch is a turkey.”
The goldfinch proves Tartt to be a rara avis; her own species, willingly chained to her demanding muse.
That goldfinch has surely escaped from a Max-Beerbohm parody.
We admire the brilliant plumage of the jay, cardinal and goldfinch.
Mrs. goldfinch now joined her handsome mate and it was plain to see that she admired him quite as much as did Peter.
The goldfinch is very anxious that the sparrows should not find out this barn.
His active wife had risen before him, strewed the shop with fresh sand, and renewed the goldfinch's food.
The Government gave me £70 for "goldfinch," which was good, I think.
Why does the joyous song of the goldfinch no longer sound cheerfully in my ears?