Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

A little change of pace from what has been rather heavy reading. This book was an absolute pleasure cruise stylistically and I've made peace with the content for now.

Neil Gaiman is the writer of such classics as Coraline and Stardust. This book was suggested by my cousin Daniel, whose opinion I can generally respect. I read American Gods this past summer and it was a little bit too grown up for me but this novel is a masterpiece.

It follows the man Richard Mayhew as he stumbles from a normal life in London to a tumultuous adventure through the parallel universe of London Below. He accompanies the Lady Door on her mission to discover who ordered her family murdered.

This is not unlike one of those kids' adventure books (of which the Narnia series were the first-ish) where an unassuming child falls into another world and becomes a hero. They learn about the value of friendship or some similar trite BS and come back home with a deep appreciation for their home/family/boring life, etc.

Except Gaiman doesn't let that trope be. He explores the nature of the demons we face in our parallel universes (aka: inner lives/selves). He gives them names and forms - our fear of losing our identity, of losing our dignity, of losing our physical lives, of losing our minds. His allegory for the triumph of belief over inanity is astounding. He champions the hero of the mind who will not lie to themselves, who will not be blind to the inscrutable just because it is difficult. I love that theme. A hero does not accept a fate just because it is the most obvious or comfortable choice. A hero accepts the materials given and forges their own fate from it. A departure from the Wizard of Oz, no-place-like-home stuff, more of the Tolkenian epic written conveniently all in English and a healthy amount of snappy one-liners.

Or it might just be a nice little fantasy work that has no metaphorical depth whatsoever. Depends whether you're a materialist (Daniel...). Here's your tasty little quote:

So the day became one of waiting, which was, he knew, a sin: moments were to be experiences; waiting was a sin against both the time that was still to come and the moments one was currently disregarding.

 The style is super British, which I love because I read too much Tolkein and Lewis and Chesterton and Kipling and Bronte in my youth. There is also a tendency to draw heavily on the mythology and history and geography of London. I don't know the city, obviously, never having been, but I do love that a true son of that city writes about it so craftily. He weaves the elements of those myths with elements of reality to demonstrate the city as he experiences it: half hagridden ancestral birth-mother, half tangible brick-and-mortar. Gaiman will always get full points for writing style. I doubt I can help it.

I give this book 3/3 stars, because that's how many I know (Polaris, Alpha Centauri, the Sun).

Up next: A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess.