In which your blogger compares Stephenie Meyer to James Joyce. No, your blogger has not been drinking. Interested? Then, my fellow denizens of the dark and stormy night, let us rock.
Plot: Edward drives. Oldies conveniently come on the radio and he sings along. Bella asks his age. Edward, it turns out, is 105 years old. One Hundred. And. Five. Years. Much, much more on this in a moment. Edward tells the story of how his little rat-pack of a family came into being. Carlisle got sick of being lonely, so in his merciful wisdom decided to unleash four additional blood-lusting superhumans on the world. Swell guy, that Carlisle. But of course, this doesn't matter because love murmur sparkle sparkle sparkle. In a related story, your blogger has now started drinking. By the way, there are more vampires. Mostly nomadic. Because, obviously, a bunch of ultra-intelligent indestructible supermen will have no interest in shaping world affairs. None whatsoever. Our heroes arrive back at the Swan residence, a building with which Edward is remarkably familiar. Because he's been coming every night to watch Bella sleep. She finds this flattering and romantic. Your blogger finds it abhorrent. Charlie arrives home and does not, to your blogger's endless regret, put several bullets between Edward's creepy eyes. Bella excuses herself early and runs upstairs, where she finds her stalker waiting in her bedroom. They discuss the forceful sensation of being in love. Your blogger steps away from the computer and spends a few minutes throwing darts with his girlfriend, reminding himself as he does that Stephenie Meyer has no fucking idea what love actually feels like.
Rant: People think that writing and publishing are solitary professions. In reality, any given novel is proofread, edited, revised, copyedited, revised again, edited again, and generally filtered through the intelligence of at least a half-dozen adults before ever hitting a bookshelf. In the case of giant bestsellers like this book, that number can easily be doubled. Which makes it all the more mindblowing that this abortion of a story was ever allowed to see the light of day.
Edward Cullen is one hundred and five years old. ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE YEARS. Bella Swan is seventeen. This spring, a schoolteacher was (quite rightly), fired, arrested, made a pariah, and all but tarred and feathered on the SUSPICION that he'd begun a relationship with an underage student. She was probably seventeen when the relationship started. He was in his forties. Imagine, for a second, that he'd been 105 years old. Not a schoolteacher perhaps, just a stalker asshole with enough money and mysterious charm to attract a defenseless child. Would we call that romantic? Marvel at the miracle of these two souls at different stages of their lives finding everlasting love? Or would we call the old guy a pedophile monster, and scream as a nation for his arrest?
And then it gets worse. Look, relationships are not about two souls merging into one. That's a load of crap and always has been. I love my girlfriend, love spending time with her doing anything or nothing, miss her more than I care to admit when she's gone. And I still cherish the fact that we have seperate interests, different social groups, varied hobbies and jobs. She is a huge part of my life, and I wouldn't trade that for anything on the planet, but part of the reason we have so much fun together is that we each live a full, dynamic life that we can share with each other. All of which is a very long-winded preamble to saying that Edward and Bella have the least healthy relationship I've ever had the displeasure of reading. Slowly (ok, not that slowly), he is removing every tie she has to the outside world. Surrounding her with his obession. He has no respect for her boundaries, no conception of privacy, no ability to percieve the world beyond his own needs.
Stalking is not courtship. Obsession is not love. And Twilight is not worth any more of our time. Goodnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment