my journey through London Below

The reason why I take such a long time reading a book is because I don't want the story to end.

I am reading Neverwhere, have been for a week or so. I am constantly marvelling over it and wondering what Neil Gaiman was/is on. Usually, when I read a book, I start befriending the characters, identifying with one or another of them, feeling like the story is somehow part of my life, the way stories should.

This past week, I have stumbled upon Richard Mayhew. I am very enamored of Richard. Gaiman writes him out with a contagious sense of irony; he has a "rumpled, just-woken-up look to him, which made him more attractive to the opposite sex than he would ever understand or believe." My kind of guy.

This past week, I feel like I am walking through London Below with him, an extraordinary event, one of such a singular nature that I would never have seen coming. It doesn't feel like the reality I am used to, but I am becoming less and less surprised as time goes by.

So, who am I then? Of course, I would love to see myself as Door. Many see me as a child, many see me as one who needs rescuing. Even as I am at my most childlike, I know of the attention that I can command, of the things I can make happen. I know I am extraordinary. I am Door, that way.

And if I am Door, then it's my fault that Richard is in London Below. For some reason, I'm finding this thought - that it's my fault - very cool. I also like to think that it's not just me, it's also help from the universe and, somehow, partly because Richard wants to be there himself.

I am also Hunter, of the beautiful burnt caramel skin. I cannot lay claim to being able to beat up big hulking men and slaying New York alligators and Thai tigers, but I know that I am as strong and formidable as she is, probably cross a couple of dangerous bridges and protecting people in the process. I can also eat like there's no tomorrow.

Strangely, I also Lamia the Velvet. Observe:

"Hullo," said Richard, with a smile. "...You, um. Here for curry?"

She fixed him with her violet gaze and said, in mock Bela Lugosi, "I do not eat... curry." And then she laughed, a lavish, delighted laugh, and Richard found himself realizing how long it had been since he had shared a joke with a woman.

It's been a while since I've flexed my flirting muscles. I haven't really used them much lately, the only receptive objects being ballet boys who don't really care much for witty repartee. By all rights, Lamia the Velvet feels evil as soon as you encounter her in the story, yet I find her so familiar to me. Ironically, I find a warmth within her.

To further my argument, here's another page of the book where I'm sure friends of mine would say "Damn, I've heard you say exactly that in real life, at least once."

"Well," said Richard, "...We have to get the...thing I got...to the Angel. And then he'll tell Door about her family, and he'll tell me how to get home."

Lamia looked up at Hunter with delight. "And he can give you brains," she said, cheerfully, "and me a heart!"

Door (said)..."We'll be fine, just the three of us, Richard. We cannot afford a guide."

Lamia bridled. "I'll take my payment from him, not you."

"And what payment would your kind demand?" asked Hunter.

"That," said Lamia with a sweet smile, "is for me to know and for him to wonder."

Right now, I am at the part in the book where all three women are walking with Richard through London Below, to get to the Angel Islington at the end of Down Street. I keep stalling. I don't exactly know what to expect at the end of the book. I could end up forever with Richard in London Below. I could end up sucking the life out of him. Or Richard could go back to London Above. Right now, I'm savoring this journey. And wish I'm having whatever Gaiman was on when he wrote it. That would be such a trip.