The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt

I muscled through this in July 2015 while on vacation in Maine. Typically I stop reading books when I lose interest. In this case I didn't, hoping that the story and prose would gain traction.  And for about 200 pages two thirds of the way through there was some promise - good solid prose and moments of real art (well, at least in my mind, for whatever that's worth). However, the tale disappointingly ends in a 30 page stream of consciousness on something about love, child-parent relationships, time, art and immortality - hard to make sense of what the protagonist was trying to tell me. Your time would be better spent reading Mark Helprin.