On the Internet, a trigger warning precedes content deemed violent. It is added to let people know that they may be upset by what they are about to see or read. Usually, the potential trigger itself is specified – e.g. “contains images of beheading”, or “contains rape apologism”.
When Neil Gaiman, hyper-prolific and immensely active on social media, came across this phenomenon, it got him wondering whether fiction should come with trigger warnings too. And before anyone else could do it to his own work, he did it himself. Hence, after the illusions of Smoke and Mirrors, and the wonders of Fragile Things, the beloved author brings us the disturbances of Trigger Warning.
Are the warnings necessary?
Having finished reading the tales and the poetry, not to mention the typically Gaimanesque introduction – thoughtful and playful all at once – I can't decide whether the warning is justifiable or premature. Of course, there is all the darkness that Gaiman talks about in the introduction. There is violence, cruelty, loss, pain, hurt, grief, and defeat.
But things worthy of trigger warnings that aren't fiction – actual incidents of sexual violence, racially motivated shootings, or jealous murders – don't come with the sense of catharsis that many of these stories bring. We may be spooked by the resident monster in Click-Clack the Rattlebag, or thrown off by the voracious Wolfe in A Lunar Labyrinth, but we know Gaiman is there. And that knowledge is inherently comforting.
It’s about having character
Part of what makes this collection delightful is its breadth. Gaiman first acknowledges, and then gleefully breaks, the rules of themed short fiction collections. He capers through genre after genre – horror, high fantasy, urban fantasy, fairy tales, science fiction, crime fiction, poetry – collapsing it all into an obvious enjoyment of his enormous imaginative powers.
But I think the crux of it goes beyond Gaiman the individual writer. It is really the host of characters who prop up the collection that defines it, each in a thousand little ways. These characters make the book, just as they have made Gaiman himself, in that they have fundamentally shaped his work.
Putting things in place
Location is often a character in itself: most of the stories are empathically stories of Place. Mostly, these places are strewn across the western world: there is a long quest to a cave in the Isle of Skye, a malevolent stalking in Krakow, a weird abduction in Sydney. (Only once does a non-Western Place make an appearance – in Jerusalem).
There are the unnamed but severely familiar places -- mainstays of the western fairy tale canon. Then, there are all the places Gaiman wrote or dreamed up the stories in, carefully detailed in his introduction: his friend Tori (Amos)'s house, the various hotel rooms, the pub his friend Susanna (Clarke) and Colin Greenland took him to.
Family and other animals
But most significant of all are the characters peeking out from between the lines – the writers Gaiman is paying tribute to (Jack Vance, Harlan Ellison, Ray Bradbury, Otta W. Swire), and Gaiman's family, especially his wife, musician Amanda Palmer, invoked in the introduction like a talisman against the darkness.
Amanda is mentioned by name only in one story, Diamonds and Pearls: A Fairy Tale, written as a companion piece to a photography project. But she's a constant presence in many others, whether they were inspired by something she did (like the human statue in Feminine Endings) or read to her while she had the flu (like The Thing About Cassandra, about a memory that literally comes alive).
So much variety
The great thing about a collection like this is that there's something for everyone. Not everything works (there have been several complaints about many of the poems), but when it does, it does so spectacularly. I loved The Sleeper and the Spindle, a feminist and lesbian mash-up of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. Gaiman is wonderful at commenting on and reshaping the fairy tale canon, and I wish there was more of this.
Also enjoyable was And Weep, Like Alexander, a story about an “uninventor” who prises open the fabric of time to erase technological developments that are detrimental to humankind. Gaiman himself calls this story “silly”, but it is precisely why I enjoyed it so much. Witch Work is a beautifully rhythmic poem that I'm glad was included.
Then there's a lovely poem with subtle commentary on fascism, told from the point of view of a certain Wicked Witch, called Observing the Formalities. The angry and despairing Down to a Sunless Sea is superb.The tribute stories are largely gripping, many of them excellent. And fans of American Gods will enjoy Shadow's story Black Dog, which finds him in Derbyshire's Peak District, and in London.
There are two great experiments with form – a teenage girl's laconic responses to a bureaucratic questionnaire in Orange, and twelve tales, rooted in the twelve months, based on twelve responses from Gaiman's small-country-sized Twitter following in A Calendar of Tales.
Sure, some of the stories and poems don't work as well as the others, but it’s easy to see why Gaiman is revered for his prodigious talents. A collection well worth reading – for Gaiman loyalists as well asf or those interested in genre fiction rooted in fantasy, or in just a set of darn good yarns.
We welcome your comments at
letters@scroll.in.
When Neil Gaiman, hyper-prolific and immensely active on social media, came across this phenomenon, it got him wondering whether fiction should come with trigger warnings too. And before anyone else could do it to his own work, he did it himself. Hence, after the illusions of Smoke and Mirrors, and the wonders of Fragile Things, the beloved author brings us the disturbances of Trigger Warning.
Are the warnings necessary?
Having finished reading the tales and the poetry, not to mention the typically Gaimanesque introduction – thoughtful and playful all at once – I can't decide whether the warning is justifiable or premature. Of course, there is all the darkness that Gaiman talks about in the introduction. There is violence, cruelty, loss, pain, hurt, grief, and defeat.
But things worthy of trigger warnings that aren't fiction – actual incidents of sexual violence, racially motivated shootings, or jealous murders – don't come with the sense of catharsis that many of these stories bring. We may be spooked by the resident monster in Click-Clack the Rattlebag, or thrown off by the voracious Wolfe in A Lunar Labyrinth, but we know Gaiman is there. And that knowledge is inherently comforting.
It’s about having character
Part of what makes this collection delightful is its breadth. Gaiman first acknowledges, and then gleefully breaks, the rules of themed short fiction collections. He capers through genre after genre – horror, high fantasy, urban fantasy, fairy tales, science fiction, crime fiction, poetry – collapsing it all into an obvious enjoyment of his enormous imaginative powers.
But I think the crux of it goes beyond Gaiman the individual writer. It is really the host of characters who prop up the collection that defines it, each in a thousand little ways. These characters make the book, just as they have made Gaiman himself, in that they have fundamentally shaped his work.
Putting things in place
Location is often a character in itself: most of the stories are empathically stories of Place. Mostly, these places are strewn across the western world: there is a long quest to a cave in the Isle of Skye, a malevolent stalking in Krakow, a weird abduction in Sydney. (Only once does a non-Western Place make an appearance – in Jerusalem).
There are the unnamed but severely familiar places -- mainstays of the western fairy tale canon. Then, there are all the places Gaiman wrote or dreamed up the stories in, carefully detailed in his introduction: his friend Tori (Amos)'s house, the various hotel rooms, the pub his friend Susanna (Clarke) and Colin Greenland took him to.
Family and other animals
But most significant of all are the characters peeking out from between the lines – the writers Gaiman is paying tribute to (Jack Vance, Harlan Ellison, Ray Bradbury, Otta W. Swire), and Gaiman's family, especially his wife, musician Amanda Palmer, invoked in the introduction like a talisman against the darkness.
Amanda is mentioned by name only in one story, Diamonds and Pearls: A Fairy Tale, written as a companion piece to a photography project. But she's a constant presence in many others, whether they were inspired by something she did (like the human statue in Feminine Endings) or read to her while she had the flu (like The Thing About Cassandra, about a memory that literally comes alive).
So much variety
The great thing about a collection like this is that there's something for everyone. Not everything works (there have been several complaints about many of the poems), but when it does, it does so spectacularly. I loved The Sleeper and the Spindle, a feminist and lesbian mash-up of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. Gaiman is wonderful at commenting on and reshaping the fairy tale canon, and I wish there was more of this.
Also enjoyable was And Weep, Like Alexander, a story about an “uninventor” who prises open the fabric of time to erase technological developments that are detrimental to humankind. Gaiman himself calls this story “silly”, but it is precisely why I enjoyed it so much. Witch Work is a beautifully rhythmic poem that I'm glad was included.
Then there's a lovely poem with subtle commentary on fascism, told from the point of view of a certain Wicked Witch, called Observing the Formalities. The angry and despairing Down to a Sunless Sea is superb.The tribute stories are largely gripping, many of them excellent. And fans of American Gods will enjoy Shadow's story Black Dog, which finds him in Derbyshire's Peak District, and in London.
There are two great experiments with form – a teenage girl's laconic responses to a bureaucratic questionnaire in Orange, and twelve tales, rooted in the twelve months, based on twelve responses from Gaiman's small-country-sized Twitter following in A Calendar of Tales.
Sure, some of the stories and poems don't work as well as the others, but it’s easy to see why Gaiman is revered for his prodigious talents. A collection well worth reading – for Gaiman loyalists as well asf or those interested in genre fiction rooted in fantasy, or in just a set of darn good yarns.
