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stridette 's review for:
The Sandman Vol. 10: The Wake
by Neil Gaiman
The book was all right. I guess. I must have missed the bit in this series when Morpheus was likeable; when we were meant to get attached; when he was even a character, rather than a force of nature that was the nexus around which a whole lot of more interesting lives intertwined. Maybe it was the road trip with Delirium that was meant to do it. Who knows?
More significant than any of the above drivel is the fact that, somewhere between the first and final pages of this book, I learnt about what an absolute fucking monster Neil Gaiman is. Allegedly.
You know how, when you read stuff containing sexual abuse, you kind of assume by default that the author is presenting that abuse as something bad, because of course, it is? I think everyone made that assumption about Sandman and Gaiman. I know I sure did. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with me. There's just something wrong with him. Allegedly.
People bring up Calliope's story a lot, naturally, but I'm remembering a later scene in Faerie, in which Puck turns up, shoves his hand down a random lady's dress, gropes her roughly, and then leaves her there, ignoring her evident distress. This scene goes unchallenged and unremarked upon. It leads to nothing. It's just meaningless horridness.
I know Gaiman is claiming the usual, it was all consensual, if it crossed a line I didn't know it, etc etc. And of course, it's impossible to know a person's mind through their art. But I see a man with these allegations against him, and I see a man who illuminates his work with imagery of flagrant and wanton disregard for boundaries and consent. I draw a connecting line. I don't think that means there's something wrong with me.
I'll finish up reading Endless Nights and Overture, because I've already borrowed them from the library so I might as well. I won't talk much about them, though, if at all. I don't want to spend much more time thinking about a man whose works were formative for a teenage me, but who I evidently grew out of a long time ago, and who is such a disgusting specimen of the lowest of humanity. Allegedly.
More significant than any of the above drivel is the fact that, somewhere between the first and final pages of this book, I learnt about what an absolute fucking monster Neil Gaiman is. Allegedly.
You know how, when you read stuff containing sexual abuse, you kind of assume by default that the author is presenting that abuse as something bad, because of course, it is? I think everyone made that assumption about Sandman and Gaiman. I know I sure did. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with me. There's just something wrong with him. Allegedly.
People bring up Calliope's story a lot, naturally, but I'm remembering a later scene in Faerie, in which Puck turns up, shoves his hand down a random lady's dress, gropes her roughly, and then leaves her there, ignoring her evident distress. This scene goes unchallenged and unremarked upon. It leads to nothing. It's just meaningless horridness.
I know Gaiman is claiming the usual, it was all consensual, if it crossed a line I didn't know it, etc etc. And of course, it's impossible to know a person's mind through their art. But I see a man with these allegations against him, and I see a man who illuminates his work with imagery of flagrant and wanton disregard for boundaries and consent. I draw a connecting line. I don't think that means there's something wrong with me.
I'll finish up reading Endless Nights and Overture, because I've already borrowed them from the library so I might as well. I won't talk much about them, though, if at all. I don't want to spend much more time thinking about a man whose works were formative for a teenage me, but who I evidently grew out of a long time ago, and who is such a disgusting specimen of the lowest of humanity. Allegedly.