The aim of this article is to analyse how Neil Gaiman consciously employs a mythical structure in his first novel, Neverwhere (), and how he subverts the . Download Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman PDF, Kindle, eBook, Neverwhere Kindle, PDF. From the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of and Heart- Shaped Box comes a chilling novel about a worldwide pandemic of spontaneous .
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If ever thou gavest hosen or shoon. Then every night and all. Sit thou down and put them on. And Christ receive thy soul. This aye night, this aye night. Every. The #1 New York Times bestselling author's ultimate edition of his wildly successful first novel featuring his "preferred text"—and including his special N. Neverwhere. Neil Gaiman. I have never been to St. John's Wood. I dare not. I should be afraid of the innumerable night of fir trees.
Tommy G. Therefore, by the application of the monomyth to the postmodern contemporary society, the novel seems to actualize the classical pattern, percolating it with contemporary ideas —such as the deca- dence of metanarratives like Reality or Culture— and techniques —such as pastiche and rewriting of canon- ical old stories and intertexts—. Significantly, the two evil characters, which Richard, Door and the Marquis have to face, are directly related to a Victorian environment through their location at the Underside. But Jessica changed all that. Ross went first, in his filthy T-shirt and his crusted blue-jeans, and Croup and Vandemar walked behind him, in their elegant black suits.
Richard would accompany Jessica on her tours of such huge and intimidating emporia as Harrods and Harvey Nichols, stores where Jessica was able to purchase anything, from jewelry, to books, to the week's groceries.
Richard had been awed by Jessica, who was beautiful, and often quite funny, and was certainly going somewhere. And Jessica saw in Richard an enormous amount of potential, which, properly harnessed by the right woman, would have made him the perfect matrimonial accessory.
In Harvey Nichols's men's fashion department she would pick out for him the kinds of clothes she thought that he should wear--and he wore them, during the week, anyway; and, a year to the day after their first encounter, she told him she thought it was time that they went shopping for an engagement ring.
Gary put down the plastic troll doll he had picked up from Richard's desk. It had a shock of Day-Glo orange hair, and a slightly baffled expression, as if it were lost. And the subject had indeed come up.
Jessica had, however, convinced herself that Richard's troll collection was a mark of endearing eccentricity, comparable to Mr. Stockton's collection of angels. Jessica was in the process of organizing a traveling exhibition of Mr.
Stockton's angel collection, and she had come to the conclusion that great men always collected something. In actuality Richard did not really collect trolls. He had found a troll on the sidewalk outside the office, and, in a vain attempt at injecting a little personality into his working world, he had placed it on his computer monitor. The others had followed over the next few months, gifts from colleagues who had noticed that Richard had a penchant for the ugly little creatures.
He had taken the gifts and positioned them, strategically, around his desk, beside the telephones and the framed photograph of Jessica. It was a Friday afternoon. Richard had noticed that events were cowards: Take this particular Friday, for example.
So it was unfortunate that, despite the Post-it note Richard had left on his fridge door at home, and the other Post-it note he had placed on the photograph of Jessica on his desk, he had forgotten about it completely and utterly. Also, there was the Wandsworth report, which was overdue and taking up most of his head. Richard checked another row of figures; then he noticed that page 17 had vanished, and he set it up to print out again; and another page down, and he knew that if he were only left alone to finish it.
It rang. He thumbed the speakerphone. Richard looked at his watch. It's almost wrapped up. I just have to attach the P. I'll come down for it.
He thumbed the speakerphone off; it rang again, immediately. You haven't forgotten, have you? He looked at Jessica's photograph for inspiration and found all the inspiration he could have needed in the shape of a yellow Post-it note stuck to her forehead. He picked up the phone, reading the Post-it note as he did so. No, I hadn't forgotten.
Seven P. Should I meet you there? Not Jess. I don't think so. You really could get lost in your own backyard, Richard. The other line on his phone had begun to ring.
He picked up the other line.
It's me, Gary. He waved. You said we could go over the Merstham account. Of course we are. There was a telephone number at the bottom of the Post-it note; Richard had written the Post-it note to himself, several weeks earlier. But he had not confirmed it. He had kept meaning to, but there had been so much to do and Richard had known that there was plenty of time. But events run in packs.
Sylvia was now standing next to him. The Wandsworth report? Look, just hold on a sec, can you? He finished punching in the number, breathed a sigh of relief when somebody answered, "Ma Maison. Can I help you? I think I booked it. And if I did I'm confirming the reservation. And if I didn't, I wondered if I could book it. Or Stockton. Or Bartram--Jessica's surname. And as for booking a table.
It wasn't the words that Richard found so unpleasant: I know I should have phoned before. In her dream they were all together in the house. Her parents, her brother, her baby sister. They were standing together in the ballroom, staring at her. They were all so pale, so grave. Portia, her mother, touched her cheek and told her that she was in danger. In her dream, Door laughed, and said she knew. Her mother shook her head: Door opened her eyes.
The door was opening, quietly, quietly; she held her breath. Footsteps, quiet on the stone. The footsteps hesitated. She was well hidden, she knew, under a pile of newspapers and rags. And it was possible that the intruder meant her no harm.
And then the footsteps came closer, and she knew what she had to do, and it scared her. A hand pulled the covers off her, and she looked up into a blank, utterly hairless face, which creased into a vicious smile. She rolled, then, and twisted, and the knife blade, aimed at her chest, caught her in the upper arm. Until that moment, she had never thought she could do it. Never thought she would be brave enough, or scared enough, or desperate enough to dare.
He gasped, and tumbled onto her. It was wet and warm and slippery, and she slithered and staggered out from under the man, and she stumbled out of the room.
She caught her breath in the tunnel outside, narrow and low, as she fell against the wall, breathing in gasps and sobs. That had taken the last of her strength; now she was spent. Her shoulder was beginning to throb.
But she was safe. Well I never, Mister Vandemar. It sounded like gray slime. A light was kindled and flickered.
Croup, his eyes gleaming in the dark beneath the earth, "she won't survive us. Door kneed him, hard, in the groin: Richard waved away the interruption. Life was almost under his control, now.
Just a little more time. He snapped it shut and ran. He pulled his coat on as he went.
Gary was following. If ever, he decided, they made disorganization an Olympic sport, he. I blew it. I have to see Jessica tonight. Of Stocktons? They hurried down the stairs. And she remains the light and love of my life, thank you very much for asking. Figgis, the building's security guard.
Figgis smelled vaguely of medicinal liniment and was widely rumored to have an encyclopedic collection of soft-core pornography. He guarded the doors with a diligence that bordered upon madness, never quite having lived down the evening when an entire floor's worth of computer equipment upped and left, along with two potted palms and the managing director's Axminster carpet. Is Monday okay for you? Monday's fine. See you Monday. Figgis inspected their signatures and satisfied himself they had no computers, potted palms, or carpets about their persons, then he pressed a button under his desk, and the door slid open.
The underway branched and divided; she picked her way at random, ducking through tunnels, running and stumbling and weaving. Behind her strolled Mr. Vandemar, as calmly and cheerfully as Victorian dignitaries visiting the Crystal Palace exhibition. When they arrived at a crossroads, Mr. Croup would kneel and find the nearest spot of blood, and they would follow it. They were like hyenas, exhausting their prey. They could wait.
They had all the time in the world. Luck was with Richard, for a change. He caught a black taxi, driven by an elderly man who took Richard home by an unlikely route involving streets Richard had never before seen, while holding forth, as Richard had discovered all London taxi drivers will hold forth--given a living, breathing, Englishspeaking passenger--on London's inner-city traffic problems, how best to deal with crime, and thorny political issues of the day.
Richard jumped out of the cab, left a tip and his briefcase behind, managed to flag down the cab again before it made it into the main road and so got his briefcase back, then he ran up the stairs and into his apartment.
He was already shedding clothes as he entered the hall: Then he dashed into the bedroom. The buzzer sounded. Richard, three-quarters of the way into his best suit, launched himself at the speaker. Be right, down. Jessica was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. She always waited for him there. Jessica didn't like Richard's apartment: There was always the chance of finding a pair of Richard's underwear, well, anywhere, not to mention the wandering lumps of congealed toothpaste on the bathroom sink: Jessica was very beautiful; so much so Richard would occasionally find himself staring at her,.
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