Rediscovering Neil Gaiman

Savoring fear, trembling, and confusion

My favorite experimental podcast is Welcome to Nightvale. It takes place in a town where every conspiracy is true. Playing with the folk legends of Area 52, to Godzilla, to a dark ominous cloud, one gets a foreboding sense that little towns are more than meets the eye. That, although we get a glimpse into a town’s affairs from a local broadcaster, we can only see so deep. We can barely begin to see what lies beneath the surface. In a Kafka-Lovecraftian blend, we can sense humorous chaos, and fear that something bad is going to happen. In the pits of our stomachs, we know something dangerous is lurking around the corner, waiting, smiling, hungry. Despite catching a glimpse of normalcy, we can smell the blood on its breath, it can taste our terror.

I’ve recently been reading a lot of non-fiction, particularly self-help content, and economics, one of my enduring passions. I like to imagine that with enough social science information, I can map out the world. It can be graphed, categorized, placated. With the correct context, I can optimize my behavior, wearing the perfect winter coat, start the next visionary business, organize a less cannibalistic cult (not tryna be Jeffrey Dahmer). Taking a fair amount of literary analysis in college, intertextuality, rhizomes, and frames all can play a crucial role in understanding. However, understanding the pieces individually cannot replace the sensation of enmeshment, of falling deeply. of terror. That’s where Gaiman comes in. His books always frighten me, painting a picture of a world where people are ugly. The world is unkind, and characters hurt each other without remorse. Running away can work, but it can also send you deeper.

I just got my hands on a copy of Anansi Boys, and have American Gods about two feet from my bed. The feeling of excitement, of being plopped into this man’s imagination is exhilarating. I take an ice shower as my expectations are completely subverted again and again. I’m about halfway through Anansi Boys, and even explaining it to my buddies, it feels like I’m pulling their legs. So, the main character, Fat Charlie, is a socially awkward idiot in a deadbeat job, with a fiancée who won’t put out. His life is drab, purposeless, colorless. His father, an elderly bum, so to speak, doesn’t share the same problem. He’s embarrassing, tacky, overt. Whether it’s singing What’s New Pussycat on a weekly basis at karaoke night, or giving lasting nicknames to people (Fat Charlie resents his), he’s got a swagger that Fat Charlie doesn’t have. On the eve of Charlie’s wedding day, Rosie pressures him to invite his dad to the wedding. Fat Charlie (FC from this point further) calls one of his neighbors, and learns that his father died singing karaoke to a sexy blonde tourist, and collapsed into her fake tits.

This embarrassment transcends death. FC’s attends the wrong funeral, and makes a fool out of himself. When he finally makes his way to his childhood neighborhood, he learns that his father is apparently a spider God (Anansi), and that he has a twin brother, which he can call upon by asking a spider to bring the brother over. Of course, Spider, his brother, inherited good looks and magic powers, whereas Charlie is pathetic. They grieve together, and Charlie watches as Spider is draped in women, charismatic, and willing to tell off his boss. Plus, Spider sleeps with FC’s fiancée, and takes his half. Within the span of a week, FC is in jail, his fiancée left him, and FC wants his life back. I have no idea where the plot is going, but the world is so vividly colored that I’m excited to see where things go. None of the characters in the book are particularly sympathetic, and it’s interesting seeing what hell of a ride they’re in store from. We relate to the frustration of Charlie, and the irresponsibility of Spider, it feels human, despite involving GODS.

Though, Gaiman’s work can get a lot darker. The Truth is a Cave is a story like a myth from old, a place where you can get your deepest desires, but when you do, you become a little more evil. Without trying to spoil anything (Already did that for Anansi ;) ) - the world is an unkind person. How people lose their feelings for revenge, for anger, for “justice” is searing.

But, probably one of the most discomforting stories I’ve ever encountered is Coraline. It left me unable to sleep, worried about a spider mom who wants to whisk me away from reality to suck my blood, and put buttons over my eyes. It feels vaguely like a metaphor against escapism; the ignored can find no solace in excitement and perfection. There’s no place that’s particularly kind, or easy.

After moving out, I feel that the idea that there’s no replacement for accepting some discomfort, accepting that people, even protagonists are human, that we’re all ugly in our own ways takes a lot of pressure off. In a way, that’s a kind of hope.