Eclipse

I succumbed and read Eclipse. I swear this is the last time I will ever write about Stephenie Meyer. I really am sick and tired of her books. Fortunately, the next won’t be released for a year, so I can put the series behind me for at least that long.

After offending several people with my dislike for the series, I am starting to feel vindicated. Something about the third installment has pushed some Meyer loyalists over the edge. I have heard students at work complaining about how repetitive the books can be, how little occurs in 600+ pages, how weak Bella is, and how repulsive some of the love scenes are. It feels good to be right.

This post isn’t intended to be a ripfest on Meyer, though. I really am feeling over her and her books. But here are a few reasons why:

• Throughout Eclipse, Bella compares herself and her relationship with Edward to Cathy and Heathcliff. That is a very brazen—and unwarranted—comparison to make. How big must Meyer’s ego be—how warped her sense of importance—to compare her book to Emily Brontë’s classic? I mean, seriously?
• Meyer beats the reader over the head with how much Bella and Edward love each other. Their love is unearthly (like Catherine and Heathcliff’s?); it surmounts all restraints and barriers. There never was such a love as theirs. Yet, for the life of me, after reading the three books I just don’t feel that love. I don’t even understand why the characters are attracted to each other. I’ve been told ad nauseum that Edward is attractive. But is physical attraction a solid basis for love? And what in the world can Edward (or Jacob, for that matter) find attractive about Bella? She whines and complains and trips and faints. Despite reading over 1500 pages about their love, I still don’t buy it. I feel no attachment to or investment in the characters or their relationship.
• The physicality in this book really has gone too far. One scene, in particular, is straight out of any romance novel. I’m not criticizing romance novels. They are what they are and don’t pretend to be anything else. This book, though, is masquerading as a young adult classic: “His hand curved around my elbow, moving slowly down my arm, across my ribs and over my waist, tracing along my hip and down my leg, around my knee. He paused there, his hand curling around my calf. He pulled my leg up suddenly, hitching it around his hip” (186). I blush even typing the words. Oh my.

Okay, I guess this is a Stephenie Meyer ripfest. I’m not sure why I feel so venomous (wink wink) about these novels. Maybe I’m just jealous that Meyer can write absolute filth and be a bestselling novelist. If nothing else, this should inspire me to write more and write better.