Rant Review: Booooy! Hey, Boy!

wellfleet_frozen2.jpegA. M. Holmes serves up a fresh piece of crap in The New Yorker. Continuing to blur the lines between reality-fiction and fantasy-non-fiction, this little romp down memory lane self-indulges and mollifies, coaxes and hyperbolizes, and uses the all too familiar I-can’t-remember-exactly-how-it-went-down voice. I guess we might be getting a clue into Holmes’ forced fixation on the connection between sex and violence. But do we really get to know anything about her, other than that her family used to vacation with the characters from “The Hours”? (I remember…that morning in Wellfleet.) I mean do all summer memories have to take place in Wellfleet? I feel like heading up there this weekend just so I can develop my own fuzzy Wellfleet coming-of-age memory. I don’t care if Ms. Holmes’ mom thinks that if A.M. remembers it, then it must be true. If it doesn’t read as sincere, it doesn’t matter.

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