Kate Solomon

I holiday therefore I read.

Eclipse by Stephanie Meyer

SPOILER ALERT! If you care even vaguely about Twilight books or film and don’t want to know anything about anything, then don’t read this.

I fear that I’ve given some people the impression that I read only tragic teen-schlock about vampires and werewolves and demon children. Well, that’s fair; I do read that kind of crap. Ever since I discovered Point Horror (a natural graduation from the only book that’s ever truly scared me: Bizarre Cats) I’ve been partial to a terrifyingly bad tale or two.

So yes, Twilight was right up my street. I know – I really do know – that the writing is really, really bad. And I also realise that I’m basically paying my hard-earned cash to encourage this terribly bad writer and show the publishing world that it’s ok to write rubbish and market it to impressionable young girls.

But it’s that pesky Edward Cullen – like most other girls who’ve encountered the literary or filmic Eddie C, I’m completely besotted. I’m not sure how it happened; it’s not as though the descriptions of him are subtle, gently bringing you to the realisation that he’s the only person who’ll ever do for you – the hyperbole whacks you round the head from his very first appearance onwards.

Meyer doesn’t leave his personality to fall back on either – the rational person in me (which I keep carefully hidden below the massive Twilight-loving loser) knows that he’s practically a stalker. And a total grump; if his eyes aren’t flashing angrily at the smallest annoyance, then his angsty grip is threatening to pull a table apart or he’s practically screaming at this girl he just met because he’s got issues about being a vampire. And yet still we love him (let’s not even bother addressing the fact that we quite willingly accept that he’s a vampire).

But my love for Edward Cullen, which is pure and true like a fresh winter snow – e.g. I get it Meyer, sex is Bad and Wrong (even in wedlock!) – couldn’t survive the third book, which I read on the plane en route to Tampa. Good god it’s dull. I can barely dredge up the details in my mind, it was such a nothing narrative; something about vampires, something to do with some very blatant newspaper reports, then there are some werewolves and it descends further into implausibility until finally there’s some kind of fight caused by a token character who scares us not one bit and of course no major characters die and it all works out fairly nicely for all the vampires and werewolves that we care about.

Woven skillessly throughout this dubious narrative is Bella, the protagonist, basically begging Edward to sleep with her (quick recap: Bella and Edward are intertwined in the deepest love two people ever felt, developed over the course of book one, tested in book two, back on track in book three). Eventually they make a deal: she’ll marry him if he’ll get down and do the bad thing.

Of course, the deal is hashed out between bouts of Bella kissing Jacob, the sickeningly attractive werewolf who also just so happens to be in love with her. It’s pretty obvious that the reason we all love it is because us ladies can so easily substitute ‘Bella’ for ‘me’ – these delicious specimens of manhood actually adore me, they’re actually fighting over yours truly, I am the one everyone loves, me! Meeeeeee! – cue maniacal laughter and the burly women with the straitjacket.

I forced myself through the 559 pages of tedium during the eight-hour flight. Even with the Kate-as-Bella displacement going on, it was a chore at best. When we arrived at our destination I’d developed a shocking headache – blame for which I’m placing solely on the Muse-loving Ms Meyer.

Coming soon: Part Two – A REAL BOOK, I PROMISE