Carey and Fabry's take on Neverwhere

I have always distrusted comic adaptations of literature. (When I was much much younger, we had comic book versions of Treasure Island and Last of the Mohicans—not that anyone can do much damage to Cooper’s writing.) Classics Illustrated seemed somehow subversive. Egalitarian.

Despite my misgivings, I ordered Mike Carey and Glenn Fabry’s Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere. Even the title warned me of my folly. Is it a graphic novel about a novel that belonged to Gaiman? Or is it simply a marketing ploy—two guys riding on Gaiman’s coattails? Either way, the title is terrible.

Reading the introduction only confirmed my fears. Carey begins with a two page apologetic convincing us that Gaiman is a deity (up there with Matsou Basho) and the graphic novel is, well, it is a tribute, celebration, a psalm. Disappointed and forewarned, I started. What choice did I have?

Actually, I didn’t start it; I was swallowed. Like Mayhew, I disappeared into London Below. Into Carey’s world, Fabry’s world. Door did not look like I had expected. I didn’t care. The narrative twisted aside; I followed. It is one of those reads that you finish hours later, a little dizzy, a little disoriented, and frustrated—I wanted more.

One of the glories I have discovered in this geeky world of comics, graphic novels, statues, and ghost hunters is its unwillingness, refusal to bow to convention, authority—to a canon. More and more, though, as I read the introductions, I see a pecking order, a hierarchy, or oligarchy that would put the stuffiest, most hidebound of English Departments to shame. That, though, is a different rant.

If—like me—you are four years late, buy Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere. Scratch out Gaiman’s name on the cover, tear out the introduction, and settle back for a hell of a run through the world of London Below—which is too big for any one author’s narrative. And if you read it back in the day, stop again to notice what everyone else overlooks.

Bayard