You guys. I did not know this would be SO HARD. I sailed in airily, thinking "I never use most of these! It'll be easy!" Now I'm about to go into deep mourning for the lost ones AND I STILL HAVE TWENTY MORE TO CUT.
*sniffle*
I kid, of course. However, I thought these comments were worth a follow-up post, because they represent what I think is a pretty large school of thought among Stephenie Meyer's fans. While working on my review of the series, I was keeping track of fan reaction to the newly released Breaking Dawn (book four) on the Internet, and "It's just fiction!" -- and many variations thereof -- was a claim I saw over and over again, in response to those who disliked the book. You can see a few examples here.
You may feel it's just the English major in me overreacting again, but I get slightly alarmed when people use "It's fiction" as shorthand for "It doesn't matter if it's horrifically bad." What many of these fans don't seem to realize is that there's a long and honorable tradition of reviewing, yes, fiction. (Pick up a copy of the New York Review of Books or the Washington Post's Book World next weekend and see if you can find any reviews that read simply, "It's fiction, so give it a break already!")
And there's a reason for that: because fiction does matter. It reflects who we are as a society, and who we want to be. It inspires, informs, moves, and sometimes even transforms us. While it's not meant to be used simply as a vehicle to send a message, themes and messages are always going to be inherent in it, whether Stephenie Meyer understands that or not. (Even Mark Twain couldn't really get away without any.) And those messages -- and the quality of the book in general -- are not always going to be good, even if the writer has good intentions.
So how do we deal with that fact?
It's not as if every work needs to be, or can be, understood in the same way. We all have our guilty pleasure books and movies; we've all enjoyed our fair share of fluff. I certainly have. And I'm not arguing that everything we read, hear, or watch has to be all sweetness and light. Just yesterday, as I was in the car thinking over what I wanted to say in this post, it suddenly struck me what I was listening to: a Broadway compilation CD including songs like "Cabaret" (celebrating hedonism), "Roxie" (infidelity, greed, murder), and "A Little Priest" (cannibalism).
So yes, I get that not all fictional messages are meant to be taken seriously. What's needed is some context, emotional distance, and discernment. The trouble is that Meyer provides exceedingly little of the first two in her work, and many of her fans seem to be arguing against bringing any discernment to the table.
As a culture, in fact, we seem to be experiencing an increasing inability to think seriously about fiction, what it entails, and what it means. And that's unfortunate. Whether it's a teacher who understands that many of her students love to read fiction and write about it, but doesn't know how to use that in the classroom; or a fan who can't respond to a bad review of a novel without making unfair and unrelated accusations against the reviewer; or a bevy of teen romance novel fans who tell you that you have no right to judge a novel at all; or any of a number of other scenarios, the way we treat fiction nowadays seems to indicate a lack of willingness to think things through, apply standards, or follow any of a number of other practices essential to critical thinking.
That in itself should be enough to show us that the way we think of fiction has serious implications about the way we think in general. A passionate, visceral reaction to a work may not be a bad thing in itself -- it may even be exactly what an author hopes for -- but backed up by an inability to argue logically on behalf of the work, or even by an insistence that one's liking for a work makes it a sacred and untouchable text, it's a legitimate cause for concern.
Ideas matter. Emotions matter. Dreams and goals and values and ethics matter. And if all these things matter, then fiction -- which deals with all these things, and more besides -- most definitely matters.
--Gina DalfonzoIn a future New York City, society is divided between Light and Dark, and people are treated accordingly. Those who live behind walls in the Dark part of the city are referred to as “the buried ones”; they are feared and disliked, but they’re also necessary. The Lights and the Darks practice different kinds of magic, and each is dependent on the other for their very survival.
Lucie Manette is a Light magician, born in the Dark city. Her mother was murdered and her father arrested and tortured for violating the city’s laws; Lucie decided that she would stop at nothing to get him out.
Now they both live in the Light city, where Lucie is widely admired as a symbol of freedom for what she did for her father, but all she feels about it is guilt and anguish. She can’t fully enjoy her exciting new life with boyfriend Ethan, haunted as she is by memories of the past and by her father’s shattered state. And then a new threat appears in the form of Ethan’s doppelganger, Carwyn, and Lucie realizes that even what little safety and happiness she now has could be taken from her.
If Lucie’s name rings a bell, there’s a reason: Her story, “Tell the Wind and Fire,” is an update of Charles Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities.” Acclaimed Young Adult author Sarah Rees Brennan has taken Dickens’ classic story and created her own version, set in a fantasy world that nonetheless contains strong echoes of the turbulent French Revolution period from the original.
Brennan skillfully weaves in Dickens’ plot threads, character elements, and language to create a story that’s both a tribute to his book, and a compelling work all her own. More than that, she understands and shares many of his views about societal conflict. Like Dickens before her, Brennan commendably resists the urge to villainize or idolize either side in the battle between the haves and the have-nots. Both authors make a strong case, as the cycle of vengeance plays out in their respective novels, that there is good and bad on both sides, and that redemption and restoration can never come through hatred, no matter how justified it may be.
Watching her beloved aunt preparing to torture one of the cruel and powerful members of the Light ruling elite, Lucie realizes, “His hate was as futile as hers had been for years. The power might have changed sides, but there was hate on both sides, inescapable. I felt like I was choking on it.”
But also, both novels have a cynical main character who experiences his own redemption and saves others out of love, his sacrificial actions contrasting sharply with the cataclysmic hatred and rage around him. Seeing this sacrifice teaches Lucie, among other things, that “People will come up with a hundred thousand reasons why other people do not count as human, but that does not mean anyone has to listen.”
Also like “A Tale of Two Cities,” “Tell the Wind and Fire” contains violent episodes. In place of Dickens’ guillotines, for instance, Brennan portrays cages in which prisoners are pierced with spikes, sometimes lingering for days. As in Dickens’ novel, the violent scenes are not explicit, but they are memorable. Other content issues include sexual references, including mention of the sexual relationship between Lucie and Ethan; though both of them come across as older, they’re still both supposed to be teenagers, so the fact that all the adults in their lives are somehow completely fine with this seems more than a little odd. As for profanity, there’s only a very small amount.
“A Tale of Two Cities” contains explicit religious elements. There are fewer of these in “Tell the Wind and Fire.” Light is occasionally referred to as if it were a deity (though not one that anyone is actually shown worshiping), and there are a few mentions of Dark rituals, including the one that created the doppelganger Carwyn. Near the end, there’s a mention of sins being wiped away, and though it’s subtler than the religious language and imagery in Dickens’ novel — and it’s not made clear who is wiping them away — it’s still a strong and significant idea.
As well as being a moving and powerful novel in its own right, “Tell the Wind and Fire” makes a good stepping stone for teens who may then want to go on and read Dickens’ original work. (Over at Dickensblog I’ve posted a piece that goes more deeply into the parallels between the two. I’ve also posted an excerpt from Brennan’s novel.) Their shared message about the dangers of hatred, and the possibility of transcending it through love and forgiveness, is always a timely and important one, in any age.
Image copyright Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Review copy obtained from the publisher.
Gina Dalfonzo is editor of BreakPoint.org and Dickensblog.
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