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I genuinely can’t believe I finished this book, and I don’t mean that in an offhand, wow, what a garbage fire sort of way. I mean that I’m actually fucking surprised that I managed to turn the last page of this and not immediately die of organ failure. And then my sister would have to come and break down my front door and find me contorted on my bed in my crusty old pyjamas with Dorito dust under my fingernails, and morticians would have to break my bones to pry this book out of my cold dead hands, and I’d need to come back as a ghost years later and write “It was for science�� in lipstick on the bathroom mirror just to clear my name.��



In the year of our lord 20gayteen, it’s difficult to offer any sort of fresh or remotely nuanced critique on Twilight without resorting to edgelord tactics, like declaring that it’s a feminist read or that it was all an imaginary coping mechanism constructed by Bella to make returning to the shite little town of Forks bearable. But I think our judgement has been clouded for the past ten to twelve years - at least mine has, by the endless slew of stale “still a better love story�� memes and the constant personal jabs aimed at Stephenie Meyer by mainstream media. There’s also the YA scene’s insidious desire to erase all memory of it from genre history: when I was doing research for this review, I found����in which multiple YA authors explain what their influences were for writing female-centric YA stories, and not one of them mentions Twilight, which�� Whoa. Like, that’s astounding to me. It's just disingenuous as fuck, that they had the gall to brazenly omit Stephenie Meyer from their credit lines, particularly when one or more of them started their careers in paranormal YA on the tail of the Twilight boom. Even , which claims to illustrate the history of��YA, downplays Twilight's��influence on the genre.��

YA existed before Twilight, of course, but it baffles me when the YA industry now slaps its hands to its ears and la-la-las over the indisputable truth: YA was a marginalised genre before the Twilight phenomenon. Was it a coincidence that YA paranormal romance exploded upon the rising popularity of Twilight? You could argue that it was, of course, and you’re entitled to your wrong opinion, but I did not unironically Google “Edward Cullen star sign�� for you hoes to come at me with “what about Catcher in the Rye��. Fuck Catcher in the Rye. I’m not explaining that opinion any further and not will I defend it. Fuck that book and fuck all of its smug knock-offs, because if you polish a turd it’s still a turd. I'm sorry, but I don't make the rules.
��
The basic breakdown is this: I enjoyed this book, and I mean I genuinely enjoyed it, and was invested, until about the halfway mark. After that, it was impossible for me to ignore the cloying creepiness that perverts a sweet and tender love story into something that, as an adult, is difficult for me to justify. When I was 13, I was a stan for Twilight, but not because of the books - I had only seen the movies, and for this reason it feels like a missed opportunity, because I can’t accurately compare my feelings then to my feelings now. This inaccuracy stems mostly from the fact that the movies were a farce that in no way capture the spirit of the characters or any of the relationships between them. It’s because of the movies that this series is the focus of such intense ridicule and hatred in the media; it’s the self-seriousness of the movies that’s so infuriating, because while the book is melodramatic and depressing, it’s light and jubilant where the movie isn’t. My main problem with the media’s perception of the series is that it’s based entirely on this self-seriousness, and in particular Kristen Stewart’s dead eyes.

The truth is that Book Bella and Movie Bella are two starkly different people, and you can fucking fight me on this. It doesn’t surprise me that Stephenie Meyer is and has Moved On,��because if I was her, I would genuinely be bitter as fuck, the most poisonous bitch, an actual��Viṣakanyā, not only for the unstoppable barrage of media abuse but also for the forced image of my creative work as something completely separate from what it is.��

Meyer has weathered a barrage of criticism for her , and this has bled into her storytelling, and to an extent I agree, because heavy-handed morality is an easy way to drop a story down a U-bend. However, while Meyer’s inherent religious biases have centred heteronormativity and gender-based parameters, it may run deeper than this. The artery of conflict that threads through each book in the series is opposing ideals within the central relationship, and if we look at these characters as theological models, their connection does boast a bit more nuance: Edward is Mormonism and Bella is modernism, thus their relationship is a wrestle between starkly defined historical values and modern flexibility.��



To explore this model, it's worth analysing each character as an individual, not both as a unit (we'll get to that later). My impression of Bella is that she's confident in familiar situations and, contrary to common criticism, mostly generated from the appallingly weak and lifeless character in the movies, is not defined by low self-esteem. When several boys ask her out to the dance she never defaults to this modest cry of, “who, me?��; she’s weary of the attention, and shrugs off her pursuers by diverting their romantic efforts to her single friends (with whom she shares close, if superficial bonds, to be expected from people who haven't had much time to get to know each other outside of school). She never shrinks away from male attention, and while she does often acknowledge that Edward is aesthetically pleasing, her reaction to being seen with a "dazzling" and notorious man is a natural one: “Won’t people wonder why someone so special is out with someone so ordinary, like me?�� This is not a new or particularly groundbreaking question to ask oneself, especially in young and emotionally charged relationships, and especially with someone like Bella, who is defined by her low-key and utilitarian outlook, and her discomfort with an excess of attention in social circles.��

Bella mentions that she was not popular in Arizona, but for defined reasons: She is not sporty or excessively outgoing, which the book lays out as defining traits of most Arizonans (as a non-American, I’m unable to confirm this as truth or condemn it as a false stereotype, but the author does live in Arizona). She also states that her last school was densely populated which, naturally, provides an ease of anonymity. Her move to Forks batters her with the scrutiny of the tight-knit community, due for the most part to her mother’s vaguely sordid reputation as “the Chief’s flighty ex-wife�� (12), the Chief being Charlie, a trusted pillar of the community. Renée’s notoriety as an ex-Forks resident, an elusive outsider who left the town in her dust - an uncommon novelty - marks her as a kind of traitor to the community, and by extension, Bella shares this burden. Even without considering her mother’s impact on Forks�� social circle, Bella invites attention as a rare new face among a close circle of scandal-starved teens.��

Again and again, Bella is verbally lashed for a lack of personality or strong voice, but while Bella’s narration is introspective, this doesn’t strip her of personality (I mean it; this criticism is repeated ad nauseam). She’s a quiet, orderly girl who respects authority and values her studies, as much a cliché of its time as the “strong female protagonist�� that has haunted YA for the past six years and has launched an oftentimes distasteful attack on traditional femininity, creating a dichotomy between “strong girl�� and “weak girl".

But Bella can’t be neatly categorized with her knock-offs: she forfeited her happy, sunny life in Arizona for her mother’s benefit, a notably selfless choice, and not a courtesy that her mother necessarily deserves. Renée's neglectful parenting is often brushed aside as she hounds Bella via email and phone, creating an unsavoury illusion of parental concern. In reality, Renée is immature and self-involved, leaving bills unpaid and the fridge bare, darting off to pursue an unsustainable life on the road while she has a dependent minor at home. This is commented on in a particularly telling passage wherein Bella is concerned about leaving her “erratic, harebrained mother�� (4) to fend for herself: “Of course she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she got lost�� (4). It's a troubling role reversal that plays out in a similar, albeit softer, fashion when Bella moves in with her father and is immediately forced to take on basic duties in the home, due to her father’s ineptitude in the kitchen and in homemaking.��

But Bella is an independent girl who doesn’t want to shoehorn her mother into the same situation that she fled in Forks, so she moves away to stay with her father purely for Renée’s benefit. But her relationship with Charlie is tender: when Tyler’s truck nearly crushes her, she’s thinking fondly of her father, who got up early to put snow chains on the wheels of her truck. It’s the same sort of quiet thoughtfulness that defines Bella. When people like Jacob and Angela are being sidelined by their friends - ignored during a group conversation - Bella notices this and acknowledges them. Bella’s personality is quiet, but I wouldn't call it weak. (It's worth remembering that, in 2005, a "ladylike front" was very much in fashion and not only in religious circles like Meyer's. This "touch my butt and buy me pizza" attitude didn't come into fashion until Tumblr became mainstream, and until the internet popularised the Anna Kendrick brand. You know, this "I'm a gross girl and I wear sweatpants and I like to swear". That mentality wasn't part of the media hive mind yet.)

Is this what catches Edward’s attention? In part, yes. Though more prominently it’s Bella’s mystery that attracts Edward. He can’t read her mind, thus their courtship requires rituals, wooing, a thrill that is missing entirely from Edward’s life. I mentioned in my status updates that I had a lot of feelings about Edward, his past and his pain, and to an extent I do; it’s another missed opportunity, because Edward’s past is handwaved, even though it influences every facet of his questionable behaviour, from his total lack of awareness about road safety, to his absurd and oftentimes bewildering fascination with Bella’s average life.��

Here’s the thing about Edward: he’s either too old or too young, depending on how you look at it. He was born on the cusp of living memory, which means that in 2005, he’s the same age as some people’s great grandparents, and this is what makes his relationship with Bella unacceptable. He’s not a relic, like Carlisle, or merely an older man. He is geriatric, and this adds an element of unavoidable perversion to his romance with a teenage girl.��With a clear mind, it’s almost impossible not to recoil when Edward describes Bella as “appallingly luscious�� or during this exchange:

“‘That’s probably best. Be careful, though. The child has no idea.��
I brindled a little at the word child. ‘Jacob is not that much younger than I am,�� I reminded him.
He looked at me then, his anger abruptly fading. ‘Oh, I know,�� he assured me with a grin.�� (305)

If we look at this from Carlisle’s point of view, then it becomes apparent that Edward’s age was a huge narrative blunder. Carlisle is 362, and if we sit back and contemplate the enormity of that, and the sheer gulf between him and someone who is seventeen, then it almost wouldn’t be so bad if Edward were also old as balls: he could be considered something other entirely, not an elderly man but a creature from another world, wholly divorced from Bella’s insular world. It would be as if she had fallen in love with an alien, or some eldritch beast from a parallel universe. It would require a lot more effort on Meyer's part to explain exactly what it is that makes their relationship hold together, and the politics between them would be more complex, but this would arguably have made for a more cerebral read. (Conversely, this is why I struggle to fully get on board with Outlander. Granted, I've only seen the TV show, but how could Claire and Jamie possibly find anything to talk about that's remotely relevant to either of their lives? He's never seen a bean can and he doesn't know what the telly is.) But ageing Edward up could, with some moral gymnastics and a constant reminder that Yes, This Is Weird, But We’re Going With It, remove him from Bella’s socio-political sphere just enough that it would almost be more acceptable.

It's the poor decision to time Edward's birth at the beginning of the 20th century that really hits the nail into the coffin here. While it does comfortably serve the theological dichotomy between Edward and Bella (anyone significantly older would probably not be Mormon, as Mormonism wasn't a thing until the early-to-mid 1800s) it is a stumbling block for the believability of the romance. The movie and the book both struggle desperately to reconcile Edward’s point of view with Bella’s, neither one with enough sleight of hand to properly explore the intricacies of it; that said, at least in the book, Edward is fun:

“‘You scared me for a minute there,�� [Edward] admitted after a pause�� ‘I thought Newton was dragging your dead body off to bury it in the woods.��
‘Ha, ha.�� I still had my eyes closed, but I was feeling more normal every minute.
‘Honestly—I’ve seen corpses with better colour. I was concerned that I might have to avenge your murder.��
‘Poor Mike. I bet he’s mad.��
‘He absolutely loathes me,�� Edward said cheerfully.�� (85)

In the movie, it’s impossible to understand why the hell this old man is chasing after this little girl, but in the book he’s charming and eloquent, and there are instances that beget genuine empathy—I couldn’t stop thinking about Edward’s total disregard for his own personal safety, his exclusion from society, this insular environment that Carlisle’s bite condemned him to. He is an old man caged in the body of a teenager, and his family only enables his self-destructive behaviour. I wouldn’t even call him a pervert: I would call him someone who is so psychologically damaged from a physical assault that he is clawing desperately to human affection to try to manufacture a sense of normalcy in his life. And Carlisle, his attacker, is now his sole benefactor, the puppeteer of a collection of ageless marionettes that obey his authority over their household. They survive at Carlisle’s pleasure; they play by his rules. But Edward states that the vampires do not sleep, and while sleep is necessary for growth and repair, it’s also vital for mental health. What has this created in Carlisle, a man who hasn’t slept in around 340 years? Is there any way to measure the psychological damage this could cause, or are we seeing it now in this strange, macabre puppet show that is the Cullen clan?

Is this an intentional angle? It’s hard to say. I doubt it, but I don’t think there’s such a thing as “reading too much�� into stories, especially those that deal with extremely weighty topics such as immortality and love and pack mentality. What strikes me most here is that Bella is a victim of the Cullen clan, but so is Edward, and of course Rosalie. Edward, Rosalie, and Esme were all turned by Carlisle without their consent, and while they all were dying, and though this is passed off as noble by Carlisle, it doesn’t ring true.��

As asserted by the narrative, the “lawless�� vampires, i.e. those who do not belong to a "safe" clan and who are not under the control of any other entity, and who hunt humans, are the villains of this story, but what makes them villainous is their disregard for human life, and that they justify this by citing their natural instincts. The vampires�� natural attractiveness, their smell, and their heightened senses all function for ease of hunting, and the Cullens are not exempt; the difference between them is that the ungoverned vampires hunt humans, and the Cullens do not.��

Or do they?

Perhaps what Carlisle did can’t be labelled “hunting��, but it could be something worse. It could be the ultimate act of power and control, to stockpile living bodies, to use acts of brutality and violence to manufacture close familial bonds. Carlisle professes not to have given in to his baser instincts, but the truth may be that he did, not by killing but with a cultivated community of psychological torture. Edward states that Carlisle was lonely, but the problematic element to this is that Carlisle knew why he was lonely - it was because immortality made him that way. His solution to this was to condemn other people to the same fate. One could ask why Carlisle was so certain that the other “Cullens�� would bond with him, but my answer to this is that Carlisle made it that way: this was his design, to collect a trove of ghosts and lock them behind the doors of his estate.

The Cullens will always be connected by the things that make them “other��, and in the end, so will Bella. She will become a Cullen too, but I’d say it’s not Edward’s fingers that are plucking her puppet strings.��

Is James the villain here? Perhaps. Perhaps not.��













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