This book, the stunningly cunningly twistily mistily delightful first novel from storyteller extraordinaire Neil Gaiman, was (you can probably tell from the parts of this sentence you've already read) very enjoyable indeed. I picked it up second-hand years ago, and in this last week of my abhorrently long student summer, ploughed through it in a couple of days. I loved it.*
To explain what the book is about would basically require a full synopsis, which I cannot be bothered to write and you shouldn't be bothered to read. You should just read the book. It's brilliant. The basic premise though is that another London exists, under and inbetween the gaps and forgotten areas of England's capital; this London Below (as it is called) is populated by weird conglomerations of cultures and peoples left behind in time and reality, by stern indefatigable warriors and people who idolise rats and immortal hitmen (Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar are hilarious and terrifying in equal measure) and medieval courts based on the Underground and black tea-drinking monks and dark life-sucking temptresses and some fantastically pompous dude called the Marquis de Carabas and even an angel called Islington. By accident, Richard Mayhew (a man with the stereotypical yuppie lifestyle and an appropriate unease at it) finds himself inextricably sucked into this world, and caught up in the murder plot of Door, the last surviving daughter from a noble family with the magical powers of opening anything. Richard, dragged along by Door, the Marquis and Hunter (a bodyguard with a penchant for slaying giant beasts), must come to terms with the weird new magical London he finds himself stuck in, and if possible return to his old life - all the while accompanying the others on their increasingly-dangerous quest to avenge Door's family.
In terms of deeper thoughts and reflections on the content and themes and such of what I've read (which is what this blog's meant to be about) - well, I don't have any. Sorry. This book doesn't probe at concepts, it's not philosophical, it has no real agenda and makes no real points**, and I actually really enjoyed that about it. Sometimes it's nicer for a novel not to have one. It's only a story, but that doesn't diminish it, as in fully embracing what it is, it's a superb one. Neil Gaiman is probably one of the most genuinely imaginative writers alive. The world created is so unique, so inventive in odd yet comprehensible ways, so filled with characters real enough to care about (even the bad ones); the prose is intelligent and witty and deliciously descriptive; the plot is tight and neat and winds at the perfect pace to a fully satisfying resolution. It's punky and ethereal and postmodern and easily-accessible and wondrously entertaining.
If you like great stories, read this book.
* A few days later, I acquired the 1996 TV-miniseries that Neil Gaiman originally wrote Neverwhere as (the novel was an extended in-depth adaptation of his previous work), only to be thoroughly disappointed. DO NOT WATCH THE MINISERIES. Almost everything about it is horrendous, except the writing (obviously) and the fact that Johnson from Peep Show plays the Marquis de Carabas and Malcolm Tucker plays the Angel Islington.
** Other than arguably a slight comment about individualism leading to antisociality, isolation and lack of interpersonal compassion in modern urban culture; the contrasts between London Below and London portrayed paint a picture of our normal world as one in which it becomes supremely easy to ignore everything and everyone outside one's own neat little life, which makes us both boring and complacent to others' ills. This isn't a central theme, though it is interesting and well-put (if somewhat socioeconomicoculturally (is that a word? I'm having that as a word) outdated, as a post-2008-recession reader).
To explain what the book is about would basically require a full synopsis, which I cannot be bothered to write and you shouldn't be bothered to read. You should just read the book. It's brilliant. The basic premise though is that another London exists, under and inbetween the gaps and forgotten areas of England's capital; this London Below (as it is called) is populated by weird conglomerations of cultures and peoples left behind in time and reality, by stern indefatigable warriors and people who idolise rats and immortal hitmen (Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar are hilarious and terrifying in equal measure) and medieval courts based on the Underground and black tea-drinking monks and dark life-sucking temptresses and some fantastically pompous dude called the Marquis de Carabas and even an angel called Islington. By accident, Richard Mayhew (a man with the stereotypical yuppie lifestyle and an appropriate unease at it) finds himself inextricably sucked into this world, and caught up in the murder plot of Door, the last surviving daughter from a noble family with the magical powers of opening anything. Richard, dragged along by Door, the Marquis and Hunter (a bodyguard with a penchant for slaying giant beasts), must come to terms with the weird new magical London he finds himself stuck in, and if possible return to his old life - all the while accompanying the others on their increasingly-dangerous quest to avenge Door's family.
In terms of deeper thoughts and reflections on the content and themes and such of what I've read (which is what this blog's meant to be about) - well, I don't have any. Sorry. This book doesn't probe at concepts, it's not philosophical, it has no real agenda and makes no real points**, and I actually really enjoyed that about it. Sometimes it's nicer for a novel not to have one. It's only a story, but that doesn't diminish it, as in fully embracing what it is, it's a superb one. Neil Gaiman is probably one of the most genuinely imaginative writers alive. The world created is so unique, so inventive in odd yet comprehensible ways, so filled with characters real enough to care about (even the bad ones); the prose is intelligent and witty and deliciously descriptive; the plot is tight and neat and winds at the perfect pace to a fully satisfying resolution. It's punky and ethereal and postmodern and easily-accessible and wondrously entertaining.
If you like great stories, read this book.
* A few days later, I acquired the 1996 TV-miniseries that Neil Gaiman originally wrote Neverwhere as (the novel was an extended in-depth adaptation of his previous work), only to be thoroughly disappointed. DO NOT WATCH THE MINISERIES. Almost everything about it is horrendous, except the writing (obviously) and the fact that Johnson from Peep Show plays the Marquis de Carabas and Malcolm Tucker plays the Angel Islington.
** Other than arguably a slight comment about individualism leading to antisociality, isolation and lack of interpersonal compassion in modern urban culture; the contrasts between London Below and London portrayed paint a picture of our normal world as one in which it becomes supremely easy to ignore everything and everyone outside one's own neat little life, which makes us both boring and complacent to others' ills. This isn't a central theme, though it is interesting and well-put (if somewhat socioeconomicoculturally (is that a word? I'm having that as a word) outdated, as a post-2008-recession reader).
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