Let us consider the problems of the long novel, in which the heft is apt to come in for almost as much critical examination as the content. There is, for instance, Jack Beatty’s famous critique of James A. Michener’s “Chesapeake” (865 pages): “My best advice is don’t read it; my second best is don’t drop it on your foot.” Presumably, Beatty read it — or at least skimmed it — before offering these helpful hints, but you get the idea. In this hurry-scurry age, big books are viewed with suspicion, and sometimes disdain.

The book buyer’s suspicions are more justifiable. The critic, after all, is being paid to read. Consumers must spend their hard-earned cash for the same privilege. Then there’s the question of time. Prospective buyers have every right to ask: “Do I really want to give two weeks of my reading life to this novel? Can it possibly be worth it when there are so many others — most a good deal shorter — clamoring for my attention?”

Last, consider the novelist — in this case Donna Tartt, whose first novel, “The Secret History,” published in 1992, was greeted with critical hosannas and excellent sales. Her follow-up, “The Little Friend,” was published 10 years later. This means she labored over “The Goldfinch,” her latest novel, for at least as long. Such a prodigious investment of time and talent indicates an equally prodigious amount of ambition, but surely there must be periods of self-doubt. To write a novel this large and dense is equivalent to sailing from America to Ireland in a rowboat, a job both lonely and exhausting. Especially when there are storms. Suppose, the writer thinks (must think), this is all for nothing? What if I’m failing and don’t know it? What if I make the crossing and am greeted not with cheers but with indifference or even contempt?

It’s my happy duty to tell you that in this case, all doubts and suspicions can be laid aside. “The Goldfinch” is a rarity that comes along perhaps half a dozen times per decade, a smartly written literary novel that connects with the heart as well as the mind. I read it with that mixture of terror and excitement I feel watching a pitcher carry a no-hitter into the late innings. You keep waiting for the wheels to fall off, but in the case of “The Goldfinch,” they never do.