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Neverwhere By Neil Gaiman Harper Perennial 370 pp. Rating:
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The person who recommended Neverwhere told me it was a book about homeless people. My first thought was “Neil Gaiman wrote a nonfiction book about the homeless?” My second thought was “What could be so exciting about this book that I’d want to read it?” After the first 10 pages, I quickly and pleasantly realized Neverwhere was a splendid, entertaining urban fantasy novel.
The book begins with Richard Mayhew—an average British guy who slaves at a nondescript office job and engages the world passively—trying to save a dinner meeting, arranged by his overbearing and domineering fiancée Jessica, from becoming a complete disaster. As they walk to the restaurant, Richard stops to help an injured young woman, named Door, who seemed to materialize through a brick wall. Jessica continues on her way, threatening to end their relationship, while Richard takes Door back to his apartment.
The following day, after Door leaves his apartment, Richard discovers that he has become a non-entity. People can no longer see him. Cabbies pass him by. His desk at the office has been removed. Jessica doesn’t recognize him. The London Tube trains ignore him. And his flat is rented while he is literally still in it. Disoriented, he pursues Door and finds himself in London Below, a grungy magical world that thrives in the tunnels, cellars, and strange realms beneath the London streets.
Gaiman unveils this world slowly through Richard’s eyes, wisely foregoing tedious omniscient narrative passages in favor of brief glimpses and necessary details. Through this technique, we learn about the characters and the underworld as Richard does, which pulls us into the story.
What makes the locations even more intriguing and entertaining is that Gaiman has modeled them after stops on the London Tube, or more precisely, the stops on the London Tube are named after Gaiman’s fictitious places. Black Friars received its name from the monastery of dark-skinned monks who inhabit a fog-enshrouded swamp beneath the station, and Earl's Court hosts the court of an earl.
Gaiman applies this same logic to common objects and phases that we often take granted, but to a surprising and whimsical effect. “Mind the gap” has a different and literal meaning for the inhabitants of London Below, as does the metaphor the Great Beast of London.
Even though London Below serves as a major character in Neverwhere, Gaiman populates his book with a host of other fascinating people. Door can unlock anything and open doors, even where none exist. Her bodyguard, Hunter, hunts mythical creatures in underground cities around the world. The two main villains, Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar, are immortal assassins responsible for numerous historical atrocities; they also have a demented sense of humor that provides a comical element. Richard even encounters an angel.
The plot that unites Richard with this bizarre cast offers plenty of often unexpected twists. Thankfully, Gaiman is a talented storyteller who brilliantly unravels the plot without betraying anything. He knows how to subtly misdirect readers in a way that builds suspense, and he doesn’t encumber the narrative with needless details. A less skilled storyteller would digress about interesting, but insignificant, information, but Gaiman allows his characters to describe their world and its idiosyncrasies, which prevent him as the storyteller from digressing.
Reading Neverwhere is never tedious because Gaiman’s clean, crisp language helps the narrative move at a quick pace. He breathes life into London Below and his characters without forcing us to sift through meandering sentences or meaningless strings of words.
Perhaps the only noticeable flaw in Neverwhere is the limited depth of its characters. Gaiman describes them wonderfully, and he ensures that they act according to their personalities, but they somehow remain two-dimensional—perhaps because Gaiman never really explores their pasts or their psychologies. He shows us their personalities, but we don’t know why they have developed in this way.
We never find out how the marquis de Carabas became someone who collects favors and plays the trickster with the favors he gives. We don’t know why Hunter hunts mythical creatures. We have no idea what drives Mr. Croup to literally eat Ming dynasty figurines.
Maybe the explanation is that, in an attempt to create a metaphor, Gaiman resorted to archetypal characters—a Trickster, a Hunter, and an Assassin—and because they were archetypes, he felt no need to give them more depth. Tricksters inherently trick, hunters must hunt, and assassins always kill. Whatever the reason for this lack of character depth, it weakens an otherwise absorbing book.
In the end, Gaiman overcomes this minor flaw to deliver a near perfect ending that seems natural. All dramatic tensions are resolved, Richard evolves as a character, our attention is drawn to those who fallen through the cracks of society, and we are entertained as we unwittingly learn a lesson about life. The journey to Neverwhere is certainly worth making.
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