Neverwhere: Author's Preferred Text
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Selected as one of NPR’s Top 100 Science Fiction and Fantasy Books of All Time
The #1 New York Times bestselling author’s ultimate edition of his wildly successful first novel featuring his “preferred text”—and including his new Neverwhere tale, “How the Marquis Got His Coat Back.”
Richard Mayhew is a young man with a good heart and an ordinary life, which is changed forever when he stops to help a girl he finds bleeding on a London sidewalk. His small act of kindness propels him into a world he never dreamed existed. There are people who fall through the cracks, and Richard has become one of them. And he must learn to survive in this city of shadows and darkness, monsters and saints, murderers and angels, if he is ever to return to the London that he knew.
“A fantastic story that is both the stuff of dreams and nightmares” (San Diego Union-Tribune), Neil Gaiman’s first solo novel has become a touchstone of urban fantasy, and a perennial favorite of readers everywhere.
“Delightful … inventively horrific.”
hurry. I like you, too. I like you an awful lot. But I have to go home.” She looked up at him with her odd-colored eyes, green and blue and flame. “Then we won’t ever see each other again,” she said. “I suppose we won’t.” “Thanks for everything you did,” she said, seriously. Then she threw her arms around him, and she squeezed him tightly enough that the bruises on his ribs hurt, and he hugged her back, just as tightly, making all of his bruises complain violently, and he simply didn’t care.
said Richard, “what brings, do I have the honor, you, um.” “Just wanted to see you, really.” He was not sure what he ought to say. “That’s nice,” he said. She closed the door to his office and took a few steps toward him. “Richard. You know something strange? I remember calling the engagement off. But I hardly remember what we were arguing about.” “No?” “It’s not important, though. Is it?” She looked around the office. “You got a promotion?” “Yes.” “I’m happy for you.” She put a hand into
has left the market and scrobbling her . . .” He was silent then, and listened, nodding from time to time. Mr. Vandemar tried to pull the knife out of the wall with his free hand, but the knife was stuck quite fast. “That might be arranged, yes,” said Mr. Croup, into the mouthpiece. “I mean it will be arranged. Of course. Yes. I realize that. And, sir, perhaps we could talk about—” But the caller had hung up. Mr. Croup stared at the earpiece for a moment, then put it back on its hook. “You
all, really. He had never been able to convince Jessica that he wasn’t the kind of person who went to art galleries after that. On weekends when they did not go to art galleries or to museums, Richard would trail behind Jessica as she went shopping, which she did, on the whole, in affluent Knightsbridge, a short walk and an even shorter taxi ride from her apartment in a Kensington mews. Richard would accompany Jessica on her tours of such huge and intimidating emporia as Harrods and Harvey
photograph for inspiration and found all the inspiration he could have needed in the shape of a yellow Post-it note stuck to her forehead. “Richard? Pick up the telephone.” He picked up the phone, reading the Post-it note as he did so. “Sorry, Jess. No, I hadn’t forgotten. Seven P.M.., at Ma Maison Italiano. Should I meet you there?” “Jessica, Richard. Not Jess.” She paused for a moment. “After what happened last time? I don’t think so. You really could get lost in your own backyard, Richard.”