EDUCATED by Tara Westover (2018)

"My life was narrated for me by others. Their voices were forceful, emphatic, absolute. It had never occurred to me that my voice might be as strong as theirs.”

Tara Westover grew up preparing for the End of Days. Her father is a Mormon survivalist, and although I know little about Mormonism, I know enough to gather that he has a rather radical interpretation of the religion. Tara was not issued a birth certificate until she was nine years old. She had no medical records, because her father doesn't believe in modern medicine. She received no education until the age of 17, and her parents made little effort to educate her at home -- her time was better spent working for her father in his junkyard, or helping her mother, a midwife, concoct herbalist remedies. Needless to say, Tara did not experience a conventional upbringing, and it was this intriguing premise that influenced me to read her memoir, Educated. Given its critical acclaim, I knew this book would be interesting, but I was not expecting it to be one of the most engrossing books I have ever read.

Educated is more than just a memoir; it is a deeply introspective and self-exploratory piece of writing, very reminiscent of When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi in that regard. Its other similarity to Kalanithi’s memoir is the fact that it is extremely well-written. I expected Westover’s prose to be rather simplistic, getting the job done but lacking in flair or style, so I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Westover has a natural talent for writing, and her prose is beautiful. Especially considering that the only books she had access to growing up were the various texts of Joseph Smith, her eloquence and vocabulary are particularly impressive. She has a knack for metaphor and descriptive language, but she never overdoes it; not once did I wish that she would just cut to the chase. She balances perfectly between visceral detail and straightforward, concise storytelling, and it is this quality that made her memoir mimic a novel. The pacing of Educated is so disciplined, and the conditions of Westover’s childhood so extreme, that I was often left wondering how much of what I was reading was true. This is a common query raised about the book – how much has Westover sensationalised her upbringing? – but I saw it less as Westover taking liberties with the truth and more exercising her phenomenal writing ability to bring her story to life as vividly as possible, a task at which she most certainly succeeded.

One of my favourite quotes from Educated appears in the final pages: “I am not the child my father raised, but he is the father who raised her.” Westover is currently estranged from her parents and three of her six siblings. She did not leave her home in Buck’s Peak, Idaho with this outcome in mind; she simply wished to attend college so she could learn how to sing, but at Brigham Young University, Westover was introduced to a part of history she had never known existed. One of her most revealing anecdotes is from her first ever Western art class, in which she had to ask the professor to define the word ‘Holocaust’ as she had never heard it before. She learned that the version of history her father had taught her was edited to suit his fundamentalist agenda, and she began to question whether or not her father’s divinity was really what he claimed. She has gone on to receive an MPhil and a PhD in intellectual history from Cambridge and Harvard, but she no longer has a relationship with most of her family – the chasm between urban and rural, educated and uneducated, became too wide for Tara and her parents to reconcile their differences, and she has not spoken to her father in many years. It took Westover a long time to make peace with this separation. She has learned that her family’s religious conduct is a far cry from the actual doctrine of Mormonism, and that the isolation of her childhood resulted in her often lending her voice “to a discourse whose sole purpose was to dehumanize and brutalise others”. Yet they are still her family; even though her empathy for their ignorance is met by continual rejection, her heart still belongs to Buck’s Peak. This is not simply the memoir about a woman’s unconventional upbringing; this is a memoir about the complications of family loyalty, and Westover’s decision to leave home and strike out on her own tested this loyalty to the most excruciating degree.

Another of my favourite quotes from the book is this: “My life was narrated for me by others. Their voices were forceful, emphatic, absolute. It had never occurred to me that my voice might be as strong as theirs.” To me, Educated is the memoir of a woman going through an identity crisis. Her childhood was so isolated, and her upbringing so controlled, that she never had a chance to discover her own voice or develop her own understanding of the world. Her selfhood was defined for her by others, constructed of the truths and values given to her by her father; in her own words, Westover “believed then -- and part of [her] will always believe -- that [her] father's words ought to be [her] own”. Her journey from Buck’s Peak to Cambridge was Westover’s attempt to reclaim her own voice. I’d like to pull directly from the text now, because Westover said it so perfectly that it seems pointless to rephrase it:

Everything I had worked for, all my years of study, had been to purchase for myself this one privilege: to see and experience more truths than those given to me by my father, and to use those truths to construct my own mind.

Westover has expressed in multiple interviews that education is not just a process of learning; it is “a process of self-discovery, of developing a sense of yourself [and] the way you think”. Her education took her far from the world she knew, not just geographically but philosophically, ethically, and historically too. She lost a great deal along the way, and rather fell to pieces for a while in the process (as one does when their family threatens to cut them off unless one allows an exorcism to be performed upon oneself), but she gained a great deal, too: she gained an autonomous voice.

Westover is not the first person to navigate this kind of emotional turmoil, but she has certainly written the most moving memoir about it. Educated, and its extraordinary young author, defied all of my expectations. I thought Westover would be illiterate, but she was not. I thought she would renounce her family, but she did not. Her memoir is a powerful and exquisitely rendered story that has left me with so much to think and write about, and although I have started to resent it a little bit because this review fought against me so aggressively, I will absolutely be recommending Educated to every person I meet. It is an absolute wonder to behold.

WORKS CITED

• Carey, A. (2018, February 24). Educated by Tara Westover review: An extraordinary Mormon upbringing recounted with evocative lyricism. Retrieved March 3, 2019, from https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/educated-by-tara-westover-review-an-extraordinary-mormon-upbringing-recounted-with-evocative-lyricism-1.3393833.
• Dean, M. (2018, February 14). Educated by Tara Westover review – escape from a Mormon fundamentalist family. Retrieved March 3, 2019, from https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/feb/14/educated-tara-westover-mormon-family-review.
• Gates, B. (2018, December 3). Educated is even better than you've heard. Retrieved March 3, 2019, from https://www.gatesnotes.com/Books/Educated.
• Schwartz, A. (2018, June 14). The New Yorker Recommends: Tara Westover's Tender Memoir, "Educated". Retrieved March 3, 2019, from https://www.newyorker.com/recommends/read/educated-by-tara-westover.

FAVOURITE BOOKS OF 2018

It’s that time of year again! Out of all 122 books that I read in 2018, only five of them are my favourites, which is a bit of a depressing proportion, but these books in particular are all so amazing and have set the bar so high for my reading in 2019, so I'm not upset about it. Without further ado, listed below are the best books that I read in 2018. This is always my favourite blog post to write.

5. Shades of Magic trilogy by V. E. Schwab

I had no plan to include this series, but it’s grown on me so much that it felt wrong to publish this list without talking about it. It’s a fantasy trilogy that takes place in four parallel versions of London, each with a different amount of magic. There’s Grey London, which has no magic left; Red London, where magic flourishes and whose people prosper under the Maresh Empire; White London, an anarchic world where magic is chaotic and difficult to control; and Black London, where magic consumed and killed all its inhabitants and that has been magically sealed off for years. No one has the ability to travel between Londons except for powerful magicians called Antari, of which there are only a few remaining – one of whom is the protagonist, Kell Maresh, adopted princeling of Red London’s Maresh empire. While on royal business in Grey London, he encounters Delilah Bard, an aspiring pirate who sets the ball rolling by robbing Kell of a dangerous magical artifact that survived the purge of Black London.

One of the things I liked most about this series was the setting/magic system. The parallel Londons concept is very unique and I enjoyed learning about how they were all structured around one another, and how that affected the amount and kind of magic that each London had. It is definitely a fantasy story, but it is grounded in enough realism that it isn’t dense and difficult to follow along, and I really appreciated that. The other thing that drew me to this series is the characters, which is the general theme of this list. There are main characters: Kell and Lila, whom I’ve already mentioned, as well as Rhy Maresh, prince to the Maresh throne and Kell’s younger brother by all but blood; Holland Vosijk, an Antari who is enslaved by the king and queen of White London; and Alucard Emery, a disgraced noble and privateer from Red London. My favourite thing was the character development and the way the narratives of all the characters intersected in the final book. Kell is my grumpy boy, Lila is an absolute take-no-prisoners bad bitch, Rhy is probably the bravest and most loyal person I have ever read about, Alucard is a charming little shit whose quest to redeem himself to Rhy is so sweet, and I initially didn’t care for Holland and ended up adoring him, so, you know. Love that for me. I did find a lot of the dialogue pretty unrealistic, but it didn’t change the fact that this was an emotional and enjoyable series with a fascinating story world, flawed but loveable characters, and a magnificent finale – in terms of how much was at stake and how much was lost, A Conjuring of Light reminded me of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which is a big compliment from me.


4. Sadie by Courtney Summers

Sadie is the only book I can think of where you may as well not read it if you aren’t going to listen to the audiobook. Why? Because Sadie is half-narrative, half-podcast. Heavily inspired by Serial, the narrative follows the titular main character, Sadie, as she tracks down the man she believes responsible for the death of her little sister, Mattie; the podcast, aired a year later, also follows Sadie, as its host, West McCray, investigates her disappearance from her hometown several weeks after Mattie’s death. His fictional podcast was recreated for the audiobook with a full cast of characters and an original soundtrack, and the production value was incredible – if you like Serial, you’re going to love this book. I was so invested that I listened to the entire eight-hour audiobook in one sitting.

The thing I liked most about this book is the content it tackled. I don’t want to say too much about that content, as knowing some of the more explicit themes ended up spoiling some of the intrigue for me, but I will say this: this book confronts a perverse and disgusting side of humanity, and it was that more than anything that left me shaken once I finished reading. A lifetime isn’t long enough to get over the kind of things Sadie has experienced, and the vengeance plot was ridiculously compelling, sensational without sensationalising the sensitive subject matter. The ending was ambiguous and thus frustrating as all hell, but it spoke to the dark tone of the narrative, shedding light on a side of crime that is often overlooked in fiction. It’s disturbing, but it’s utterly addictive, and I urge everyone to read it: even though it’s a tragic story, the way it’s told is incredibly entertaining and has stayed with me since I finished reading.

3. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

I have never been more thankful to have picked up a book on a whim, because The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is one of the most interesting books I have ever read in my life. It’s the fictional biography of a Cuban actress named Evelyn Hugo, who was a movie star in the 1950s and is most famous for having been married seven times. After a lifetime of privacy and secrecy, she decides she is ready for her tell-all to be written, and chooses unknown reporter Monique Grant to write it for her. Monique has no idea why Evelyn chose her of all people, but the actress refuses to speak with anyone else, so Monique diligently arrives at Evelyn’s apartment every day and listens as the older woman recounts her tumultuous, scandalous life.

This book has a little bit of everything that makes a story great. A thrilling, engaging, emotional plot, a main character who is very complex and flawed, and a sense of intrigue that is paced well throughout the story, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is a beautifully written novel with which I am absolutely obsessed. The main draw for most people, including me, is the titular character, Evelyn Hugo. Like I said, this is a very interesting book, because Evelyn has a very interesting life. As a young woman looking for work in Hollywood in the 1950s, she was never afraid to take risks and make compromises to get what she wanted, even if that meant sacrificing her sexuality and her ethnic heritage to be more digestible to the public. To Monique, she reflects on the choices she made, often revealing the astonishing truths behind why she made them, and she confronts them all with refreshing honesty, which I really liked – some of her decisions might categorise her as a “bad person”, but Evelyn doesn’t have time to regret how those choices might have affected others while she was busy fighting for the life she felt she deserved. It was empowering to read about a woman who never sacrificed her own needs for the convenience of others, and although it made her morally grey, it also made her authentic. I thought the fictional biography idea was absolute genius, because seeing Evelyn through the eyes of Monique, someone who only knows of Evelyn what she has chosen to share about her life, gives the reader a dual perspective; we are seeing Evelyn as she truly is as she tells her life story, but we are also seeing how that story contradicts the image of Evelyn which with the public is familiar, the mysterious, sexy starlet with seven different husbands. I found that contrast illuminating, and the book as a whole was impossible for me to put down. If you’re on the hunt for a ruthlessly ambitious and gorgeously authentic main character, Evelyn Hugo is the woman for you.

2. The Raven Cycle series by Maggie Stiefvater [full review]

This technically counts as four books, but I’m reviewing them all together. This was not a series I was expecting to read, let alone love. This urban fantasy series follows a seventeen-year-old girl named Blue Sargent, the only non-psychic in a family of psychics, and the four prep school boys she befriends. Adam Parrish, Ronan Lynch, Noah Czerny, and Richard Campbell Gansey III are on a mission to recover the body of an ancient king named Owen Glendower, as it has been prophesied that Glendower will grant a favour to whomever finds him first. Blue begins to fall for one of the boys, but she has a secret: all her life, every psychic she has met has told her that if she kisses her true love, he will die.

I love this series so much. It’s set in modern America, which I appreciate because I didn’t have to read the detailed history of a made-up fantasy world, and the plot is interesting, albeit not super action-packed – the best word to describe the pacing is ‘sleepy’. There’s five main characters, so I won’t go into much detail about what makes them so special and unique, but they are all very well-rounded, each with their own distinctive personality and narrative voice, and they all have something interesting to offer to the story in terms of their backgrounds/upbringings, their abilities, their emotions, and their interpersonal relationships with each other and with the group as a whole. Blue and her raven boys are an endearing and entertaining group to read about, with a kind of kinship that reminds me very much of Harry Potter’s Golden Trio. The other thing that made this series stand out to me is the atmosphere that Maggie Stiefvater created. This series is the definition of atmospheric writing. The whimsical quality of Maggie’s writing and the fantasy elements of the story – psychics and tarotology, ghosts and ancient kings, ley lines and dreams brought to life – work perfectly together, conjuring a deeply immersive reading experience that is mystical and magical and so, so funny. I don’t usually love fantasy, but this was the perfect kind for me, and I’m so glad that I gave it a chance this year.

1. Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardugo

This technically counts as two books, but again, I’m reviewing them together. Six of Crows and its sequel, Crooked Kingdom, were two of the first books I read in 2018, which is unfortunate, because they set the bar so high that no other book was able to compete. I wasn’t expecting to ever read this duology. Even though it gets nothing but rave reviews, it had never really piqued my interest, but it was recommended to me while I was trialling Audible in January, and I figured, fuck it. I don’t have to pay for it, so why not give it a try? Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom follow a group of teenage gang members, criminals, and runaways who band together to go on a heist to break someone out of prison. Leigh Bardugo is a phenomenal talent; her world-building is intricately layered and richly detailed in mythos, tradition, and culture, and her writing is spectacular, her dialogue Sorkin-esque with snark and speed and heart. It is the six main characters, however, that have won me over so completely.

The characters in this book are SO well-developed. There are six of them, and they each come from different walks of life: Kaz Brekker inspired the “started from the bottom, now we’re here” meme, an orphan off the streets who now runs a criminal gang called the Dregs and whom is known for being utterly ruthless and impossible to trick or manipulate; Inej Ghafa is an acrobat and an ex-sex slave whose freedom Kaz bought on the condition that she does reconnaissance work for the Dregs; Nina Zenik is a ‘Grisha Heartrender’, a powerful magician with the ability to damage people’s internal organs, and also the sexiest woman alive; Matthias Helvar is a soldier from the Norse-inspired land of Fjerda whose army hunts down and kills Grisha; Jesper Fahey is a sharpshooter with a gambling problem who works for the Dregs; and Wylan van Eck is the underdog, son of the merchant who hires the six teens to break a high-profile Grisha out of a maximum security ice prison in Fjerda. Over the course of the two books in the series, the six form an unbreakable bond with each other, but they also formed an unbreakable bond with me. The character development is excellent, and the romance is fucking amazing – yes, the heist plot is awesome, and the high stakes make it exhilarating to read, but it’s the friendships and romances that blossom among the gang that make this book so popular, because they are so nuanced and interesting and tragic that you can’t help but invest in them. Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom made an astonishing emotional impact on me and haven’t been far from my mind since I read them at the very start of 2018, and that’s why they’re number one on this list.

Thanks for reading! x

CIRCE by Madeline Miller (2018)

"As it turned out, I did kill pigs that night after all."

THIS REVIEW IS SPOILER FREE

The first book I reviewed on this blog was The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. Since adoring that novel, I will read anything Miller writes, and given her significance to this blog, it feels fitting to review anything she writes, too. Miller’s second novel, Circe, came out earlier this year. Daughter of Helios, titan of the sun, and Perse, an Oceanid nymph, Circe is born without any notable power, but as she grows up, she discovers a hidden talent: sorcery. Her forbidden power draws the attention of Lord Zeus, and to maintain peace, Helios banishes Circe to the island of Aiaia, where she is to live out her eternity in exile. Poetic, savage, and captivating, Circe is a powerful story about a woman reclaiming control over her story and learning the value of her own independence -- and the cost of defending it.

Circe is not the most memorable figure in Greek mythology; she tends to be a footnote in the stories of greater heroes. This makes it seem like there wouldn’t be much to work with, but Circe’s involvement in the stories of more famous heroes gives her an interesting perspective. That, it seems, is Miller’s specialty; providing new perspectives on familiar stories. As a fan of Greek mythology, Circe’s connection to other ancient tales is so rewarding to read; I love the way all the different heroes weave around her. Some of the heroes she encounters include Daedalus, the great inventor and father to Icarus; Jason, captain of the Argo and retriever of the Golden Fleece; Medea, Jason’s sorceress wife who murders both of their sons when Jason leaves her for another princess; and Odysseus, star of Homer’s Odyssey and one of the best known Greeks of all time. Circe’s perspective of these heroes is so unique, and she also tended to encounter them before they achieved their fame/infamy, which gives readers like me, familiar with ancient Greek history, a sense of foreboding. We know what is in store for these heroes, and that third person omniscience made the novel dynamic and intimate, especially since it is told in hindsight. As Circe is telling the story in retrospect, she knows what is going to happen to the heroes, and because the reader has this in common with her, a bittersweet kinship is developed.

Another way in which Miller warps perspective is by making Circe the protagonist. There are no surviving epics from ancient times in which Circe is the main character, and to my knowledge, no contemporary stories focus solely on her, either. She is generally depicted as an antagonist, which is unsurprising; witchcraft was forbidden to the gods, so she did literally antagonise the characters of ancient epics. Circe, however, is a first look into Circe’s side of the story. I’m unsure how much liberty Miller took when writing, but because ancient stories have so many interpretations, I’m prepared to overlook any possible inaccuracies. Circe’s side of the story was so compelling. Several reviews I’ve read call Circe a feminist retelling, and it absolutely is one, not just in terms of the content or themes but also because of the agency Circe receives over her own story. This novel made me the same kind of sad that I am when I read about the conditions women lived with during ancient times. Being a Classics student in high school was a constant struggle between interest in the history of ancient empires and fury about the appalling treatment of women in those times; it’s all so frustrating and heart-breaking to read, especially knowing that the same ignorance is still practised in so many countries today. Circe is a feminist retelling because it is powered by that same anger. When she is mocked, ridiculed, abused, underestimated, and undermined all because she is a woman, Circe fights back with a lack of mercy that I can’t help but respect, and reading about the ordeals that influenced her most infamous actions (i.e. turning all of Odysseus’ men into swine) made her empathetic in a way she has never been allowed to be.

A review in The Independent reminded me of the novel’s most poetic line: how would the songs frame the scene? It’s a nod to the source material from which Miller drew inspiration -- namely, Homer’s Odyssey -- and also a self-aware question on Circe’s behalf. How would the bards write each moment of Circe’s life? How would they represent her choices? Circe is “well aware of the narrative control others exert over her life”, and Miller is aware of it, too, so Circe is the story of the titular character reclaiming control over her own narrative. It’s a thrilling position for the novel to assume, and an empowering one, too. My favourite books are those with narrative and thematic arcs that reflect each other, and Circe is a lovely example: Circe the character is regaining control over the people who have dared dictate the course of her life, and Circe the mythological figure is regaining control over the way in which people retell her story. It makes the novel powerful and unique. Miller is probing a part of history that has rarely been touched by other writers, ancient or contemporary. Of course, it’s fiction, so she can really do whatever she likes, but I thought it was daring for Miller to reimagine Circe in such a radical way, to take a character so insignificant in the grand scheme of heroes and villains and thrust her into the spotlight. Circe is a bitter protagonist, hardened by what she has gone through and what she has lost, but it makes her wonderfully honest. Her perspective is so refreshing, and it emphasises the gorier parts of ancient epics that bards like Homer ignored and excused.

Circe is an inquisition, a revolution, but more than anything, it is a chance for a sideline character to tell their story. We’re starting to see this kind of thing more often in modern fiction -- Twilight retold from Edward’s perspective, Fifty Shades of Grey told from Christian’s point of view, Divergent told by whatever character Dave Franco’s doppelgänger played, all that crap -- but Miller’s attempt is so much more successful, and not only because we barely asked for Bella’s opinion on the matter, so Edward’s was hardly necessary. At once ruefully bitter and hesitantly optimistic, Circe is a sweeping success, an exquisitely rendered story that holds history accountable and empowers the women swept under its ancient rug.

WORKS CITED

Scholes, L. (2018, April 20). New novel Circe turns the Odyssey from an ancient tale of female subjugation into one of empowerment. Retrieved December 12, 2018, from https://tinyurl.com/ya7ryzem.

NEW MOON by Stephenie Meyer (2006)

"Once you cared about a person, it was impossible to be logical about them anymore."

THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS

When I made the decision to read Twilight two years ago, I didn’t predict that one book would turn into a seven-part series in which I criticise not only every Twilight book, but also the entire Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. And yet, here I am, introducing my third instalment in that series: my review of New Moon, book two in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight saga, and I’m happy to report that it manages to be even worse than Twilight, which really is an achievement in itself.  

A lot of the problems I have with Twilight continue in New Moon: the plot is empty until the last quarter, the book takes itself far too seriously, Bella continues to be so clumsy that she has to go to the emergency room five times a week, yadda yadda, you get the picture. It’s what I’m gradually coming to expect from Stephenie Meyer, so I’m no longer surprised by it. However, Twilight and New Moon have one major difference between them: in New Moon, Edward leaves, and Jacob Black fills his place.

Having general access to an internet connection, I knew that the Bella-Edward-Jacob love triangle was coming. What I wasn’t expecting, however, was for Edward to literally up and leave in New Moon. He departs on page 74, and doesn’t return for another 300 pages. Hallelujah! Given that Edward is one of my least favourite characters to have ever been written, I was pretty pleased with this development.

And then Jacob happened.

Where do I begin with Jacob Black? He is so awful that he made me miss Edward. He is so annoying and corny and douchey that it made me want to rip my hair out. He’s supposed to be this charming, funny guy, someone who’s easy to be around, someone who can give Bella a normal life, someone whose affections for Bella will challenge her unconditional love for Edward and make her question whether or not Edward is worth it. And he does do all these things. Meyer makes it clear in Twilight that Jacob has the hots for Bella, so it makes sense that with Edward temporarily out of the picture, Jacob starts putting the moves on Bella. It still weirds me out that she’s a legal adult and he’s only just 16, but the age of consent in Washington state is 16, so whatever, it’s not weird, he’s still technically a child and she’s still technically an adult but whatever it’s cool I’m not grossed out at all. The thing that really disturbs me about Jacob’s interest in Bella – and yes, of course there’s about to be a feminist angle, what else did you expect? — is the fact that he never gives up.

There’s something to be said about persistence in romance. Under the right circumstances, the whole asking-them-out-fifty-times-in-a-row-until-they-finally-agree thing can be perceived as romantic; it can make a person feel really special. Under the wrong circumstances, though, it’s annoying, frustrating, stressful, and even scary. To quote How I Met Your Mother, "if both people are into each other, then a big romantic gesture works, but if one person isn't into the other, the same gesture comes off serial-killer crazy". I don’t think Meyer was aiming for serial-killer crazy when she wrote Jacob Black, but he’s certainly closer to the creepier end of the spectrum. A third of the way through the book, he tags along to a movie with Bella and her friend Mike, another boy who is inexplicably in love with Bella in spite of her complete lack of personality. And then this happens:

I joined [Jacob] with a sigh. He looked like he was thinking about blurring more lines. Sure enough, as soon as I sat down, he shifted over to put his arm around my shoulders.

“Jake,” I protested, leaning away. He dropped his arm, not looking bothered by the minor rejection. He reached out and took my hand firmly, wrapping his other hand around my wrist when I tried to pull away again (p.186).

She doesn’t want him getting handsy with her and tells him to stop, so he responds by continuing to do it anyway, and then using his superior strength to overpower her when she tries to move away. And I haven’t even gotten to the worst of it yet. Jacob speaks first:

“You like me, right?”

“You know I do.”

“Better than any of the other guys you know?”

“Better than the girls, too,” I pointed out.

“But that’s all,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He grinned down at me. “That’s okay, you know. As long as you like me the best [...] I’m prepared to be annoyingly persistent” (p.187).

Bella has consistently implied that she isn’t interested in Jacob romantically, that she has never seen him as anything more than a friend, and, what’s more, that she is still in love with someone else. Jacob knows all of this, but he refuses to accept it. He is willing to take no for an answer in the short term because he believes that if he keeps pestering her, he will eventually wear her down until she agrees to date him. My least favourite line during this exchange is below:

“But don’t get mad at me for hanging around, okay? Because I’m not giving up. I’ve got loads of time” (p.187).

That’s Jacob, proving that he is too dense to take a hint and that he doesn’t care about Bella’s boundaries or what she feels and wants. He is perfectly content to wait until she is so fed up with him fawning over her that she just caves in. So perhaps persistence, in some situations, is romantic, but in Jacob’s, it really is not. All he’s demonstrating is that he doesn’t actually care about Bella at all. He sees her as an object, a prize to be won.

The best part of having finished New Moon, apart from having finally exited the ninth circle of hell and being free from the crucible of Jacob’s weird, old-man sense of humour, is the fact that I have no idea what to expect from Eclipse. I’ve never read it, I’ve never seen the movie; I don’t have even a vague sense of what the plot might look like, because I tipped every moment of New Moon out of my head the second I closed the final page. I’m heading into uncharted territory, and it thrills me. If New Moon was so terrible that it somehow made me Team Edward, what sort of apocalypse is Eclipse going to bring?