Because the book follows a twice predetermined path, Edward’s narration is less exposition than it is a damning self-indictment - he refers to himself as “alien,” “evil,” a “monster,” a “devil,” a sinner who can receive “mercy” only from Bella’s acceptance. In Midnight Sun, the author’s fixation on “the other” is almost pathological. Her tendency to otherize is a longstanding one - Jacob Black, Edward’s rival for Bella’s affections, is a member of the Quileute tribe and a werewolf, and Meyer’s decision to exploit (and animalize) Indigenous identity has been rightly criticized.

Meyer has said that her interest in Edward’s point of view lies in his inhumanity, his otherness.

After meeting khaki-clad vampires and werewolves through Bella’s first-person narration, we’re finally granted access to Edward’s head, put through the paces of first love alongside a 100-year-old vampire. Midnight Sun, Meyer’s latest venture (in the works for over 12 years), is an attempted complication. Bella moves to Forks, Washington, meets Edward, and falls head-over-Converse - there’s never a real alternative, even after the series’s love triangle emerges in the sequel. They hate each other, and then they don’t, with a twist - he has fangs, guys! But the parallel fails to stretch any further because while Pride and Prejudice remains high stakes even on a reread, Twilight feels dully inevitable.

If, back then, you didn’t pick up on Bella name-dropping Jane Austen every few pages, Stephenie Meyer was crawling out of her money pile daily to remind you that, yes, Bella Swan and Edward Cullen were the Elizabeth and Darcy of the digital age. THOUGH MOST WILL CREDIT - or curse - Twilight for ushering in the vampire craze of the early 2010s, it’s always been a highly referential text.

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