A brief bit of backstory, as a fairly lonely, reasonably odd and resolutely outsiderish boy, my absolute favourite author in the whole wide world was Terry Pratchett. But my favourite Terry Pratchett book wasn't solely written by him. Good Omens, co-authored with Neil Gaiman, struck precisely at the absurdist but dark sweet spot which was guaranteed to satisfy me. The shade that Gaiman brought to Pratchett's flights of fancy tempered the book to what was, to my mind perfection.
Since then Gaiman's been a figure that's been lurking around the "must get round to reading" parts of my hind-brain. An engaging presence on Twitter, I've been dimly aware that he's been racking up a serious count of books, So when I found myself one sunny morning in Southport's fabulous Broadhurst Books (it's the bookshop of your childhood dreams, tiny rooms, twisting stairs and corridors, walls packed floor to ceiling) it seemed to be the right time (I was looking for some Borges, but it was at such a height that I feared for the safety of the assistant if she went to get it).
And it was....okay. Alright. Quite enjoyable.
I think it's entirely possible that Neverwhere has suffered from a bit too long of a subconscious build-up. I've seen so much love poured out by Gaiman fans that I was expecting my socks to be blown off. As it was, they remained resolutely on. The story concerns a young man being inducted to the fantastic world of London Below. A place invisible to those who live above ground, but populated by characters and creatures whose names have resonance with the quotidian London (Old Bailey, for example, or The Angel Islington). It's a nice conceit, and highlight's Gaiman's excellent ability to mix fantasy with the real world which I fell I love with inGood Omens all those years ago. And it's certainly an entertaining page turner, with some memorable characters (the assassins Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar are worth the price of admission alone). But it left me feeling a trifle unfulfilled. It seems strange to say it, in a book containing some spectacularly gruesome deaths, but I was expecting something a little darker. At no point in Neverwhere did I feel anything other than it was all going to work out for the best.
This is partially a fault of the book's construction, written originally as a TV series, it's been reverse engineered into novel form, and the seams show at times. The book feels episodic, more a series of set pieces, this is the bit of peril in this chapter. this doesn't leave a lot of room for sketching out the characters, and they can, at times verge on the caricature (a exception here is the death and rebirth of the Marquis de Carabas, one of the few moments of what feels like real pain ad suffering in the book). For example, there's surely an interesting backstory to Hunter's quest within a quest, but it's rather cursorily dealt with in a couple of pages, without much detail.
The problem here is that Gaiman is actually slightly too good at his job, he's created this extraordinary world which the reader would like to explore more fully, but without more detailed characters it's difficult to do so. That said, the book is an enjoyable read, and rips along at a fair old pace. But I think, on balance, I needed a little more light I order to deepen the shade.
Since then Gaiman's been a figure that's been lurking around the "must get round to reading" parts of my hind-brain. An engaging presence on Twitter, I've been dimly aware that he's been racking up a serious count of books, So when I found myself one sunny morning in Southport's fabulous Broadhurst Books (it's the bookshop of your childhood dreams, tiny rooms, twisting stairs and corridors, walls packed floor to ceiling) it seemed to be the right time (I was looking for some Borges, but it was at such a height that I feared for the safety of the assistant if she went to get it).
And it was....okay. Alright. Quite enjoyable.
I think it's entirely possible that Neverwhere has suffered from a bit too long of a subconscious build-up. I've seen so much love poured out by Gaiman fans that I was expecting my socks to be blown off. As it was, they remained resolutely on. The story concerns a young man being inducted to the fantastic world of London Below. A place invisible to those who live above ground, but populated by characters and creatures whose names have resonance with the quotidian London (Old Bailey, for example, or The Angel Islington). It's a nice conceit, and highlight's Gaiman's excellent ability to mix fantasy with the real world which I fell I love with inGood Omens all those years ago. And it's certainly an entertaining page turner, with some memorable characters (the assassins Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar are worth the price of admission alone). But it left me feeling a trifle unfulfilled. It seems strange to say it, in a book containing some spectacularly gruesome deaths, but I was expecting something a little darker. At no point in Neverwhere did I feel anything other than it was all going to work out for the best.
This is partially a fault of the book's construction, written originally as a TV series, it's been reverse engineered into novel form, and the seams show at times. The book feels episodic, more a series of set pieces, this is the bit of peril in this chapter. this doesn't leave a lot of room for sketching out the characters, and they can, at times verge on the caricature (a exception here is the death and rebirth of the Marquis de Carabas, one of the few moments of what feels like real pain ad suffering in the book). For example, there's surely an interesting backstory to Hunter's quest within a quest, but it's rather cursorily dealt with in a couple of pages, without much detail.
The problem here is that Gaiman is actually slightly too good at his job, he's created this extraordinary world which the reader would like to explore more fully, but without more detailed characters it's difficult to do so. That said, the book is an enjoyable read, and rips along at a fair old pace. But I think, on balance, I needed a little more light I order to deepen the shade.
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