|Written by Douglas Wilson|
|Monday, 26 April 2010 07:55|
Okay, so I am soldiering manfully onward through Twilight or, as some, impressed by the writing style, might want to call Dreckula.
I have come to Chapter 18, in which the game of vampire baseball was brought to an end when it was interrupted by a band of other vampires, three in number—only this group is the kind that hunts humans. There are two guy-vampires and a girl-vampire. They don’t have gold or black eyes, but rather they are “a deep burgundy color” (p. 376). You may conclude from this last reference that I have read at least 376 pages of this stuff. The sacrifices I have made for the advancement of the kingdom are not insignificant. The girl-vampire has “chaotic hair” that is also a “brilliant orange,” and, if that were not enough, her hair was full of debris from the woods.
So there’s this show-down in which the newbie vampires discover that Bella is a tasty-treat, and Edward snarls them back to their place in line. Carlisle invites them all over to their house for a visit, but instead of going back Edward starts to hightail it because he saw that one of them was a tracker, which meant no good prospects for Bella, and then they starting yelling in the Jeep about plans and stuff, and they settle on something eventually because Bella is not as dumb as she looks, and it involves Phoenix I think. No spoilers there, I hope.
This is not as bad as it would have been if they had not run it through the copy editors at Little Brown. This is not the worst book ever written. I’ll bet it is even somewhere in the middle, and I will wager that the bookkeepers at Little Brown are crying all the way to the bank. But the idea that literate Christians could possibly go for this stuff, and even recommend it to others, just illustrates how a bunch of our people thought they were getting onto the Christian Worldview Bus tour of LITT-rah-chur, and instead found themselves in the back seat of a Greyhound an hour east of Topeka, sitting next to a wino, a generous man willing to loan out his copy of The Sultan of Savannah. Not the same experience at all.
Engineers know what standards are, because if they ignore them the bridge falls down. Architects know what standards are because if you abuse the public too much, you win various prestigious awards, but very few people buy your houses. The buying power of art professors at third-rate state universities is limited. Microbiologists know what standards are because the micro-critter is either there under the microscope or it isn’t. Guys in business administration know what standards are, because the money you earned is either there or it isn’t, just like the micro-critter two buildings over, next to the library. But graduates of creative writing workshops, filling up the shelves of a Barnes & Noble near you, don’t know what actual literary standards are. They know what fads are, and what plug n’ chug formulas are, and they know a hot seller when they see one. But my response, having read 389 pages of this puppy, is this—I only have one thing to say. Golly.