bye bye, charlotte.
Because I know you’ve been waiting patiently to find out if I threw the book across the room…I did. Wolfe’s silly attempts to capture the “fuck patois” of the college campus (“Look at me, I’m down with the lingo!”) were exhausting, the ending was a cop out (everything too neat and tidy, the characters’ fate decided by a third-rate, two-dimensional bit player), the last few pages a spastic attempt to project some sort of ill-fitting psychological profile on to Charlotte.
No more Wolfe for this reader. Any suggestions for palate-cleansing novels?