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:Twilight (8601416112022): Stephenie Meyer: Books

Дата публикации: 2018-05-27 17:58

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In some cases, this means a whole-hearted rush to board the bandwagon – the local florist has given over half its floor space to Twilight T-shirts and posters. In others, it means a curious invitation to have your privacy invaded. Out on K Street, an unremarkable house has been deemed 'Home Of The Swans' via a rudimentary sign hammered into its lawn, its residents apparently willing to have people wandering past at all hours to take photos.

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I notice a few other things too: cardboard cut-outs of the Twilight characters (signed by the actors) wedged against the windows two red pick-up trucks, as driven by Stewart's character Bella Swan, parked alongside a vast array of Twilight souvenirs on sale within.

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Stranger still is the Miller Tree Inn, a white clapboard hotel that markets itself as the home of Pattinson's vampire heart-throb Edward Cullen.

Here is a picture of rare beauty. And one that will linger long after the Hollywood gravy train – with its vampires, werewolves and damsels in distress – has left for a new station.

But then came – Harry Potter and his box-office magic notwithstanding – what has been the biggest publishing phenomenon and movie series that this millennium has yet seen.

Ultimately, the road leads me north, away from Forks, towards the most north-westerly point of mainland America. Cape Flattery is reached via an increasingly narrow and twisting set of highways, but it is worth the difficulty of the journey.

And it is here – not in movie idols and teen chic, but in the raw grandeur of its scenery – that this portion of Washington State truly astounds.

Technically, it belongs to the same continental flank as Los Angeles, but there is nothing of California's sunny disposition about this wave-lashed crescent. Its sand is damp and sullen, laden with the dead trunks of giant cedars, fallen soldiers of the rainforest condemned to a watery grave, but rejected by the Pacific. They lie where the tide has thrown them, unwanted and lost.

This is the end of the line. I arrive on a misty morning, but Canada – in the hazy form of Vancouver Island – can be seen winking across the deep trench of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. To the west, meanwhile, the Pacific Ocean is a blank canvas, desolate and chill all the way to Japan.

I have driven maybe three blocks in from the edge of town, heading slowly along the main drag of Forks Avenue, when the thought really hits me: This place is spooky.

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