There is a late-stage classic episode of The Simpsons titled “The Book Job” where the plot revolves around a handful of Springfield’s most recognizable supporting cast joining forces with Bart and Homer in a scheme to craft a collectively authored fantasy novel designed to cash in on the lucrative tween lit market. Along the way, they accidentally meet Neil Gaiman who offers to assist them in their efforts.
Despite being one of the most successful writers of children’s literature in the world, however, Gaiman finds himself relegated to gopher duties. As the plot ratchets up to become a competition between the collective and Lisa Simpson to be first to actually compete the writing it moves relentlessly toward a climax in which the credit for the finished product shockingly winds up going to Gaiman himself, leading to arguably the single greatest line ever spoken by the many celebrities who played themselves over the long history of the show: “I’ve heisted my way to the best-seller list once again. And the most brilliant part is I don’t even know how to read.”
It is practically impossible for anyone who has read Neverwhere to watch this episode and not be reminded of the book. Or, for that matter vice versa. No concrete connections is made between the novel and the plot of the show, but Gaiman’s appearance in the episode makes that connection impossible to ignore. The hilarious twist at the end is perfectly in keeping with so many of the multiple thematic components going on in Neverwhere: deceptive appearances, confused identities, the journey of self-discovery, lives changed by random meetings with others, and even a world that seems to be a dark antithesis of normality. All these things converge in Neverwhere to a much greater degree and are explored with more ambiguity and complexity, but the very fact that Gaiman’s guest star turn on the show playing himself reflects upon these themes to such a degree seems more than coincidental. Of course, this is mostly due, most likely, to the fact that these themes recur with regularity throughout Gaiman’s body of work.
In a way, Neverwhere is precisely to rest of Gaiman’s career what “The Book Job” is to Neverwhere. London Below is representative of all those strange parallel worlds that populate Gaiman’s fiction. Likewise, the multitude of characters in Gaiman’s strange worlds who are not what they seem are represented here by characters like Hunter and Islington. And, of course, Richard Mayhew is an iconic example of the recurring figure in Gaiman’s body of work who begins as an innocent and comes out the other side as more experienced and mature as a result of facing the darkness of their fears.
Neverwhere is by no means epic in length, coming in under four-hundred pages as it does. And yet, it has an epic feel to it. Even though packed with incident and event, it somehow feels as though a lot more happens within its pages than actually does happen. It is a novel that in the reading feels richer and denser than in the holding of the book in your hands. It is a book that immerses the reader so deeply within its world that it feels like it should weight a good two or three pounds heavier so that even in the reality of production, it almost seems to be playing around with its theme of reality and illusion. It is not epic in length or scope, but ultimately it feel epic in that it seems to explore every single one of the major themes that have come to define Neil Gaiman’s fiction as a collective body of work.
To dare to enter the world of Neverwhere is like daring to enter Gaiman’s mind because it seems as if all the obsessions and anxieties and hopes and aspirations which stimulate his writing are encapsulated there in microcosm. Ultimately, the novel becomes a testament to the creative power of a singular vision which is, of course, precisely the ironic counterpoint to the entire concept behind the plot of “The Book Job” which suggests the same magic can be pulled off mechanistically through the collective vision of multiple minds working in collaboration.
