Twilight, 15

In which…. Oh why bother, you know I'm just going to make fun of it anyways.

Plot: Bella wakes up. Edward is still there. Dammit. Bella sits on his lap like an infant. Multiple times. Which isn't weird at all, obviously. Turns out Edward left and came back, after listening to Bella talk in her sleep in yet another moment that most definitely doesn't read like an author recycling her own ideas from earlier in the book that yes, really were terrible the first time she shoehorned them into the plot. Anyways, our fearless leads dramatically murmur their declarations of love. During breakfast, Big E decides he wants Bella to meet his family. Who, apparently, have been taking bets on whether he'll lose control and treat Bella the way frathouses treat beerkegs. Because it makes perfect sense, instead of actually taking steps to stop him murdering an innocent teenager, to watch with mild interest and place wagers on the outcome. Bella gets dressed, then faints when Edward kisses her. I… I'm honestly speechless. Lets move on. They go to the vampire house, and meet a bunch of relentlessly boring plot-devices masquerading as characters, each with their glaring neon sign of a defining personality trait. Edward plays the piano. Bella cries again but mercifully stays concious. Edward tells the (vaguely not-terrible) story of Carlisle becoming a suckhead. Finis.

Rant: Bella faints. She fucking faints. From being kissed. This book makes my skull hurt. Stephenie Meyer is, I believe, married with children. Which means, theoretically, that she has a certain amount of experience with kissing and related horizontal activities. I have nothing against a good makeout session. Done right, it can feel sexy and wild and passionate and almost impossibly intimate. All beautiful things. But this is something out of a Victorian pornographic novel, the kind of thing highclass women who weren't allowed within fifty yard of a man unchaperoned used to read as escapist fantasy. Presented in this context, as the action of an intelligent, empowered American teenager, its utter horseshit. Stephenie Meyer has no idea what it feels like to kiss someone and want it to last forever, so she's substituting a physical reaction and hoping nobody will notice.

Edward's family are worthless. Despite having well-founded doubts about his ability to maintain proper distance between his incisors and Bella's carotids, they allowed our heroes to spend an entire day together, in the middle of the FUCKING WOODS. And tooks bets on it, because having a little money on the line makes everything more fun. And yet, we're supposed to like these hypocritical freaks, because…. Anyone? Anyone? Pardon me if I don't nominate Carlisle for father of the year just yet.

Stephenie Meyer's quest to portray the central relationship of her entire series as pedephilic molestation continues apace. Bella sits on Edward's lap like a small child, allows him to carry her downstairs, struts around trying to hold his attention like a petulant ten-year-old. Even their dialogue in the bedroom carries a tone of complete condesencion, as in a father talking to a much-loved but slightly slow daughter. I'm not going to spend any more time on it tonight, except to say that the whole thing is impossibly creepy and makes my skin crawl.

Carlisle's story isn't bad, with the minor problem of it being a blatant rip-off from Stoker's Dracula. Seriously Stephenie Meyer, try to disguise the plagiarism a bit better. That said, the idea of a man of God being transformed into the thing he was taught to hunt can be the basis of a strong dramatic arc. Well, with a different author it could be. Good night, interwebs.