Becca

I can't tell you how determined I was to hate Breaking Dawn. I had my mind made up.

I've been losing patience with each successive reread. We get it: Bella is hyperfocused on both Edward and Jacob. She can't conceive of a future without one or both of them dominating it. Meyer perpetually tries to spin being controlling and forceful as the strongest evidence of a man's love for a woman. Power dynamic issues only become more pronounced and intrusive as the series progresses. New Moon and Eclipse especially put the romance genre to shame. But the thing is, I don't think Breaking Dawn is romance at all.

I think it's horror.

Pregnancy is presented as grotesque, parasitic, emotionally and physically traumatic, life-threatening. Meyer pulls out all the body horror stops: blotchy bruised skin, snapping bones, projectile vomit that's human blood, and not even Bella's. Is this Twilight or Alien? It is truly disgusting. I don't know why we gave these books to children. And yet, pregnancy is also presented as undeniably worth it. But maybe only because against all odds, Bella survives. So much so that now she'll never die.

Meyer raises fascinating questions about autonomy and parenthood. Plenty of taboo subjects are front and center. Abortion, fertility, surrogacy. If a doctor tells a woman her pregnancy will kill her, who has say in whether to see it through? Her? Her partner? Her doctor? Some combination? When does autonomy begin and end? Meyer almost flips the abortion debate on its head—fighting for the human life of the mother is more pressing than any concerns about the gestating fetus.

Is it more cruel to force medical decisions on others, or stand by and watch your loved one choose a path that will kill them? Is it wrong to intervene? Is it wrong not to? How do we protect our loved ones from harm they subject themselves to? If Edward and Bella not only belong together, but belong to one another, are their choices their own? The premise that Edward keeps Bella safe has never held less weight. But for once, and at last, Bella gets to know best. She survives her pregnancy. She becomes a vampire. Despite the fierce opposition of men in her life, her choices work out, better than even she could have hoped. She gets to be right.

So then, is Meyer arguing women can only really grow up into adults by giving birth and becoming mothers? Why doesn't Bella get to narrate her own pregnancy? Is it so Jacob can be looped back in to imprint on a baby (don't even get me started) named Renesmee (don't even get me started)?

Is Rosalie the only one willing to defend Bella's agency, or is she living vicariously through her because Bella has choices she wishes were possible for her? (I maintain that Rosalie and Leah are the two most interesting female characters, though both are vilified. Leah is put through so much I wonder if Meyer based her on a real-life nemesis. The best male characters, if you were wondering, are Seth Clearwater and both Bens, Angela's short king and an Aang-like vampire abruptly introduced in the ninth hour.)

It do still be racist though. A superstitious cleaning lady who doesn't speak English provides us insight about Bella falling pregnant. Jacob is regularly referred to as a dog and mongrel by various vampires, and at one point is brought a meal in a dog bowl. Amun, an Egyptian vampire, doesn't let his wife speak. Despite being constantly ordered around and not consulted by Edward, Bella finds this off-putting. The Amazon vampires are described as feline-like and uncivilized, clad in animal skins. Bella meets a dark-skinned man (Meyer seems leery to say Black outright except in reference to Jacob's surname) in the “ghetto” whose eyes bug out at her pale beauty. Another dark-skinned character (his skin tone is described as impossible??) is later introduced whose father is absent and selfish, a man whose violent disposition endangers innocent women. Edward is held up in stark contrast to him, exemplifying a devoted, involved patriarch. Blech.

The end of the book is laughably anticlimactic, it's hundreds of pages too long, and imprinting has disturbing connotations that go unacknowledged. But you know what? Stephenie is right. Pregnancy is gross and scary, and motherhood elicits either the deepest joys or the darkest turmoil, depending on agency and autonomy. Or maybe it does a little of both, regardless. Weird message to end on, but I'm far more compelled than when Edward and Jacob were taking turns touching Bella's face.

I have an established grudge against World War historical romance. I don't like when a horrific setting is included primarily to raise the stakes of a relationship. If you need to invoke images of mass violence to make your love story that much sweeter, that much more agonizing, frankly, I think your love story sucks. Romance shouldn't need held up by whitewashed war. All this is to say, I went into Lovely War with trepidation. And while it wasn't my favorite, I concede that it was better than I thought it would be. The writing is lyrical. Though it's long, I couldn't put it down. And, fine, it made me tear up more than once.There is a lot of instalove—characters go quickly from seeing each other for the first time to being sure they want to spend their lives together. Berry justifies this with Aphrodite. See [b:Exit West 30688435 Exit West Mohsin Hamid https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1477324680l/30688435.SY75.jpg 51234185] for a more realistic (and, I think, compelling) depiction of love in times of political turmoil.Unfortunately, the aspect of the story that interested me most—the mythology—added nothing. If anything, it detracted. The gods' commentary about the Power of Love™ was painfully trite. I kept waiting for more. The historical note at the end was a pleasant surprise. It even includes a bibliography. It's apparent Berry worked to understand WWI's impact on people like her characters: younger generations, women, and Black Americans. I still have my hang-ups about the genre—the title is Lovely War, for one—but I appreciate the clear efforts to be thorough and sensitive.

I'm torn on this one. It started out so strong—hilarious and compelling. Unfortunately, the middle really dragged for me. Everything gets bogged down with angst and failure to communicate. The tropez (ha) get heavy-handed and tangled up. The ending was better than the middle, but I still think the book loses momentum over time.

I did like the ambivalence in characters. Elliot is hurt by people physically, but hurts people verbally. He's committed to diplomacy, but highly abrasive. Luke is an idolized jock, but also a withdrawn bookworm. Serene spends the whole book puzzled by the logic of patriarchy in contrast to elvin culture's intense matriarchy.
This added dimension, though I wish Brennan had allowed her characters to challenge their worldviews earlier on, and more substantially. Elliot was needlessly antagonistic...the whole time. Serene was patronizing...the whole time. Luke should probably have remembered Myra and Peter by some point. That's all I'm saying.

I think fantasy as a genre provides opportunity to explore culture and identity in really expansive ways. And in some ways, Brennan does that. Serene's matriarchal culture of origin shows how contrived gender stereotypes are. Elliot refuses to accept that interactions with those different than or unfamiliar to us have to be violent. Brennan uses several characters to normalize both queerness and its acceptance by peers and family.

Here's the but: talk about prejudices against dwarves and mermaids sits atop a background sorely lacking racial diversity. And then Serene's superlative beauty is repeatedly and explicitly tied to her pale skin. This is an issue in SFF as a whole, but it feels more obvious when a book is nuanced enough to tackle biphobia across several species and realms, but every human just happens to be white.

A few smaller gripes: on two separate occasions, adult characters pursue characters they know to be underage (because they ask), both times responding with some variation of “close enough!” I don't like that. A 20 year-old man was 16 year-old Elliot's first romantic experience with a guy. I don't like that. ALSO, the on-and-off again hyperbolic “I might not come back next year” from Elliot. That misery just doesn't make sense in conjunction with his misery over having absolutely nothing in the human world. I think Brennan was going for a “he feels caught between worlds and doesn't know whether he can belong or be loved anywhere,” but I had trouble buying it.

To end on a good note: I loved Elliot sneaking massive bags of technology to school every year, despite it immediately smoking, Luke saying he looks like “a snail that's about to explode.” I loved Luke and Elliot yelling at one another as Luke comes out in class while Dale holds his hand up for his turn to come out and Serene holds her hand up to ask a question pertinent to the actual lesson.

In all, this would surely be more enjoyable for someone who doesn't care as much about the things I care about. But I'm me, so here we are. I loved some of it, but it's not a favorite.

I'm not usually one for books by public figures, especially those with some tie to contemporary politics. I read for escapism, for distance from push notifications about neverending election cycles. So why read this? I don't know. I don't know why I do what I do. But I just happened to wrap it up on Michelle Obama's birthday, and was surprised by how much I liked it.

More than anything, Becoming is about the impossible balancing act that comes with being someone like Michelle Obama. She's been branded everything and its opposite: too much and not enough, loved and hated, worshipped and demonized. She recalls how soundbites and outfits morphed into scathing headlines. One journalist called her the “princess of South Chicago,” while others argued she didn't know how to conduct herself around Queen Elizabeth. She was alleged to hate both America and Oscar de la Renta. She was a liability.

Many have explored this idea of balancing the personal and professional, have felt trapped in a tug-of-war between being successful and being well-liked. Every factor involved in that is magnified and complicated by being the first Black FLOTUS to the first Black POTUS.

Being shielded by security, yet under worldwide scrutiny. Living in a fortress equipped with a bowling alley and personal chefs, yet not having the freedom to open a window. Trying to divide time between your children and the constituents who elected their father (as well as those who didn't). It was so difficult, yet she is so grateful. It was exhausting, but such an honor.

Mrs. Obama also discusses imposter syndrome: asking herself whether she's good enough, whether she's done enough, whether she's done good. She talks about building confidence in herself, in her kids, in kids in general. Her perspective was too individualistic for me at some points, but you don't get to the White House with my cynicism. Becoming is a warm memoir chronicling the unique experiences of a woman who broke new ground, then did so more literally by planting a beautiful garden.