Veronica Roth's young adult novel Divergent, the first book in a trilogy of dystopic narratives, is essentially a coming of age story dressed up in sci-fi genre components. In the future world of Divergent, society is divided into five different factions. Each believes that some fundamental, but different, character trait will be the salvation for humanity from preventing the same sort of catastrophe that caused the world to be dystopic in the first place -- currently none are right on that account, but they still fight passionately over the issue. At the age of sixteen, the members of all factions take a test which informs them what faction they are best suited for, and soon after they use the test to determine whether they wish to stick with their faction or leave their family behind for a faction that might just better suit their personality. Abandoning one's faction is perceived as equivalent to fratricide. It's a near treasonous act, not just because you can't see your family ever again, but because of the ferocious rivalries between the factions.
This is a compelling and largely original premise. Though the assignment of singular character traits to the factions is a bit on the nose, Roth uses the scenario to ask meaningful questions about identity, family and adolescence. Beatrice, the story's protagonist, is a member of the Abnegation faction, who preach selflessness, but Beatrice has always felt herself to be a black sheep. When Beatrice chooses Dauntless, who preaches bravery, and changes her name to Tris, Roth thoughtfully explores Tris' poignant and earnest awakening. Tris begins to realize a side of herself she never was able to express under the burden of Abnegation's restrictions. Yet at the same time, being Dauntless has its own rigors and strictures that are problematic in their own right. Neither experience is perfect, and both are limiting and freeing in different but crucial ways.
It's at this point in the story where Roth drops the ball. She inserts one of the most overused elements of the coming of age story: a romance. Tris is a complex and strong enough character without needing to rely on a guy, and her circumstances are fascinating enough that they don't need romantic elements to spice it up. Why can't a female-centric story tells its narrative without it involving her falling for a man? The romance detracts from Roth plumbing the psyche of her protagonist and the implications of the world she's built up. But the romance is also just as problematic on its own terms. Four, Tris' initiation instructor, is predatory in his advances, and Tris is ultimately overwhelmed by his infatuation rather than starting from a place of real interest and reciprocating feelings. Roth robs Tris of agency. It doesn't help that Roth treats Four as if he's in his forties before backtracking much later and saying, "No, it's cool. He's eighteen. Only a two year difference". The shift from dirty old man stalking to idealized teen romance is jarring, not least of which is due to the former reading more honestly (When she gets to the second side of the romance, it's as if Roth is writing the perfect romance rather than one specific to her characters and this fictional world or the realities of young love).
It doesn't help that Roth uses Four to excessively underline the themes of the book. Tris doesn't recognize the inner strength being revealed by her circumstances? Have Four tell her repeatedly. Because obviously if the story hadn't been showing us this rather than telling us this, it was unclear. Where Roth fails most with the romance is lack of subtlety. Perhaps she doesn't trust her target audience, but it's a poor excuse. Teens will get what you're trying to get at; they can handle dark, weighty ideas and content. The book's best moments possibly come in its final chapters, where Roth ratchets up the tension and forces Tris to be witness to awful, violent experiences -- in a book that's already had plenty of unflinchingly vicious acts. A revolution, long hinted at, occurs, but rather than emphasizing the scope of the conflict, Roth wisely articulates it through intimacy. Tris reconnects with her family only to watch most of the people she care about die before her eyes while she's unable to prevent it from happening. The most compelling part of the book is Tris coming to terms with her family and who she is in regards to both her faction and her family. The romance serves neither of those.
It's not like I'm a jaded cynic who isn't won over by romance in his stories. But the romantic elements of Divergent feel like they were written for a very different story, as if Roth felt pressured to include them due to recent genre expectations. But Tris' experience is interesting for what it tells us about a young teen's struggles with and conception of the world, whether it be in Roth's dystopia or our world, which it at times reflects, and the book doesn't need to get some teen smooching on in order to achieve this. In fact, it ultimately does a major disservice to the thematic strength and insight of the narrative. The teen experience is not just about the butterflies of first romance and a more significant interest in the opposite sex, and Roth deals with those other far less considered aspects of the experience -- family, friendship, body image issues, bullying -- pretty well up until the point that the gooey, pure romantic relationship rears its ugly head.
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