Would you consider printed material containing mostly drawings and speech bubbles, a book? The medium was once sneered at by English departments around the globe, but a particular comic from 20 years ago may have convinced some of them to look closer. I know it convinced me. What am I talking about?
The Sandman by Neil Gaiman
I was new to comics, my first semester as a college freshman. Sandman was the first comic I decided to pick up, and I don’t think I could’ve had a better first impression of graphic novels. It’s... in a word, epic.
It blends mythology, history, science fiction, horror, and a particular Gaimanesque touch you can find nowhere other than this absurdly talented author’s works.
The concept of the Endless was fascinating. These beings, older than gods, governed the aspects of human life we tend to take for granted. Destiny. Death. Dream. Destruction. Desire. Despair.
Dream is our main player here. He was called by many names: Lord Morpheus, Oneiros, The Dream King, Lord Shaper, The Prince of Stories. And goodness, were they stories. A man who thinks nobody has to die, and decides that he won’t. A traveling theatre company that performs to a rather strange audience. A writer who kidnaps one of the Greek muses in order to win fame and fortune. A goddess hiding as a dancer in a strip club. A serial killer convention. A man who declares himself Emperor of America. Two siblings who set off in search of a brother who renounced his duties, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. A King realizes that one must change or die, and makes his choice.
For me, the best pieces of art are the demanding ones. On the first read, The Sandman taunted me a lot, in my head. “You don’t get it? Read a damn book and think, woman.”
