Posthuman Blues

I finally finished Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere" (review here). To say I "enjoyed" this novel would be an understatement; it came as nothing less than a breath of fresh air. Gaiman's vision is a violent and vitally necessary puncture in the stale bubble that entraps the "fantasy" genre.

The thing about living in the aftermath of a severe cold: Your body feels oddly alien. Like a car you haven't driven in months. I'm refamiliarizing myself with it, grudgingly heeding the readings on my synaptic dashboard. I just realized a minute ago that I'm absolutely starving; normally, this isn't the kind of thing one "realizes" . . .