It's difficult to assess the intention of this story. Especially in the first third, it feels like an indulgent and fairly superficial wallowing in a certain academic glamour that actually does not engage in serious depth with the classical material, from which it liberally and pretentiously quotes incessantly. Later, the book at some point manages to  subvert and satirise its subject to some degree and reveal some of the cruel naivety and petty stupidity of its protagonists. Somewhere buried in endless descriptions of empty stretches of time, there is a  critique of fetishised scholasticism, the hubris of self-infatuated young men, and American society, I guess. By its final third the book seemingly styles itself as some sort of modern tragedy with a set of characters whose intentions, passions, weakness, hubris and fate steers them towards disaster. But to me, the book never managed to shake off its whiff of pretentiousness, triviality, and shallowness, because it hinges on the reader's interest in the workings of these few young minds. The minds in question are, however, pretty dumb. 

That being said, Tartt evocatively paints vivid scenes, tangible characters, and sets colourful moods. The protagonist is actually fairly relatable and an apt observer of the proceedings around him. While the writing definitely has the capacity to draw you in, there are some plot elements and side-characters who are entirely unnecessary and take up way too many pages. In parts, the plot is just plain boring.