The next important thing is Edward breaking it off with Bella. He walks in the woods with her and tells her a bunch of dross which could be better summed up as, “You don’t want to get mixed up with a guy like me. I’m a loner, Dottie, a rebel.” He also says that he and his family are going to Alaska, where the other coven of friendly vampires lives.
And then he turns and walks away from her. How cavalier.
She, for her part, stares stupidly after him, then curls into a fetal position on the cold, cold ground and stays there. Buh? You’d be better served with a draught of whiskey – oh, wait. Never mind.
Bella is found some time later by her father and some of his buddies from the police department. They take her home and put her to bed. The ensuing torpor that surrounds her is told, not shown, by four subsequent pages with months on them, nothing more. Lame. It takes her four months to “surface,” and when she does, she can’t believe people saw through her pretenses, even though she hasn’t interacted with her friends, or gone out anywhere, or even really communicated with her father; on second thought, that last one doesn’t mean anything.
Books Without Pity readers are in for a treat.
Stephenie Meyer is gliding ever closer to the precipice in her sequel to Twilight, New Moon.
You might be asking yourself, “If you disliked the first book so much, why would you bother to continue reading the series?”
I’ve asked myself the very same question, believe me. All I can say is, a trainwreck is hard to back away from.
With this sequel, Meyer shows us two things (disregarding the plot entirely for a moment):
1. not only is she a bad writer, she is a bad writer with poor self-editing skills. Each book is longer than the last.
2. this imprint of Little, Brown should be ashamed of themselves for not doing a thorough job. Actually, I’ve seen it happen before – once a publishing house has their metaphorical “cash cow,” they aren’t as diligent with editing. I picked up some typographical errors in this book – step it up, people, there is no excuse.
Ready for the preposterous storyline? I might have to break this up into several entries . . . Continue reading
Via Interlibrary Loan, I received There She Is: the Life and Times of Miss America by Frank DeFord a few weeks ago. As prepared as I was for cheesy 1970s prose about a now-archaic institution (which is still nonetheless popular, as certain television programs show), this book was so laughably bad that I could not even read past the first few pages.
A sample from page 11:
Pageants are, of course, perfectly harmless. Very few sex maniacs start out their careers hanging around them.
Oh, sweet naïveté.
And chapter 4 (I think), entitled “How to Be 36-24-36 in a Swimsuit,” just feels a bit . . . well, slimy.
I would heartily NOT recommend this book.