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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!
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- - - - [The following excerpt comes from Issue No. 10: McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales.] - - - - I T W A S I N There are still clubs in London. Old ones, and mock-old, with elderly sofas and crackling fireplaces, newspapers, and traditions of speech or of silence, and new clubs, the Groucho and its many knock-offs, where actors and journalists go to be seen, to drink, to enjoy their glowering solitude, or even to talk. I have friends in both kinds of club, but am not myself a member of any club in London, not any more. Years ago, half a lifetime, when I was a young journalist, I joined a club. It existed solely to take advantage of the licensing laws of the day, which forced all pubs to stop serving drinks at eleven pm, closing time. This club, the Diogenes, was a one-room affair located above a record shop in a narrow alley just off the Tottenham Court Road. It was owned by a cheerful, chubby, alcohol-fueled woman called Nora, who would tell anyone who asked and even if they didn't that she'd called the club the Diogenes, darling, because she was still looking for an honest man. Up a narrow flight of steps, and, at Nora's whim, the door to the club would be open, or not. It kept irregular hours. It was a place to go once the pubs closed, that was all it ever was, and despite Nora's doomed attempts to serve food or even to send out a cheery monthly newsletter to all her club's members reminding them that the club now served food, that was all it would ever be. I was saddened several years ago when I heard that Nora had died; and I was struck, to my surprise, with a real sense of desolation last month when, on a visit to England, walking down that alley, I tried to figure out where the Diogenes Club had been, and looked first in the wrong place, then saw the faded green cloth awnings shading the windows of a tapas restaurant above a mobile phone shop, and, painted on them, a stylised man in a barrel. It seemed almost indecent, and it set me remembering. There were no fireplaces in the Diogenes Club, and no armchairs either, but still, stories were told there. Most of the people drinking there were men, although women passed through from time to time, and Nora had recently acquired a glamourous permanent fixture in the shape of a deputy, a blonde Polish emigree who called everybody "darlink" and who helped herself to drinks whenever she got behind the bar. When she got drunk, she would tell us that she was by rights a countess, back in Poland, and swear us all to secrecy. There were actors and writers, of course. Film editors, broadcasters, police inspectors, and drunks. People who did not keep fixed hours. People who stayed out too late, or who did not want to go home. Some nights there might be a dozen people there, or more. Other nights I'd wander in and I'd be the only person there — on those occasions I'd buy myself a single drink, drink it down, and then leave. That night, it was raining, and there were four of us in the club after midnight.
NOT EVEN A LOCKED DOOR CAN KEEP OUT THE HAUNTING CONCLUSION, AVAILABLE ONLY IN McSWEENEY'S MAMMOTH TREASURY OF THRILLING TALES. - - - - Neil Gaiman has written approximately twenty graphic novels, three nonfiction books, four adult prose-only books, and two children's books. He has won the Hugo Award, the Bram Stoker Award, the Locus Award, the World Fantasy Award, the Mythopoeic Award, and several Eisners.
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