13 Jul 2012 9:00 am

Sometime back in the early 90’s (I’d hazard a guess and say ’92 or ’93), I was seventeen or so, and I fell in love, and then out of love with a girl, and, indirectly, started reading comics again. I’d stopped, more or less, having given up on the facepalmingly bad writing that seemed inherent in cape comics of the time. And then, idly browsing through the weeklies in The Comicshop, I picked up The Sandman #42, and I came across this scene:

Of course, it spoke to me. It was new, and interesting, and addressed my teenaged angst directly, so I bought the comic. And I kept buying it, week after week, collecting back issues in drips and drabs and eventually the full trade paperbacks, because Neil Gaiman‘s writing was great, and the stories he told were engrossing, full of astounding detail, and weirdness and wildness and an epic sense of scale, married to modern sensibilities and leavened with a kind of mythic pathos.

I still remember the excitement I had when The Comicshop finally got in a copy of Sandman #1, with it’s beautifully illustrated (or perhaps, orchestrated) Dave McKean cover. Until then, I had to infer the origins of this story-of-stories, and finally, I had it in my hand, and I devoured each page, each panel with a sense of joy and wonder. This was mirrored, I recall, by the sadness and elation I felt as I closed the cover on Sandman #75 — The Tempest; the end of the story (or as Gaiman is fond of reminding his readers, the beginning of a new story).

That was in 1996. A few trade paperbacks have come out over the years containing stories from within that universe, but aside from that, there hasn’t been much in the way of new Sandman content. And then this was released yesterday:

So in 2013, seventeen years after it ended, a new Sandman series will start up, still written by Neil Gaiman, and I will return to that world again, and be filled with wonder, and I cannot wait.

Comments are closed.