In Praise of Neil Gaiman

This was going to be a very long blog entry about Neil Gaiman.  It was going to go off on a great sweep, covering Sandman (greatest graphic novel I’ve ever read and, in fact, the graphic novel that convinced me that it wasn’t that shameful to be caught in that particular section anyway, despite being a girl) and Neverwhere (greatest London novel I’ve ever read – although in answer to the questions that will come, no, I read it after I wrote a Madness of Angels).  It was going to wave you in the direction of Stardust, Coraline, Mirrormask, and suggest a detour via his short stories – who knew that you could experience a drop in body temperature in so few lines?  It might have paused for a second to mention the works of Dave McKean, illustrator, collaborator and all-round visual genius.  It was probably going to linger on the Graveyard Book, which I only managed to nab a copy of this week and haven’t put down.  It was, all things considered, going to be an epic entry full of wonder and praise and general admiration for the complete works of Mr Gaiman, possibly running to several thousand words and a touch of verse.

But you know what, let’s save time.

Neil Gaiman.

Read him.

Now.