“What’s your name?”

“Fletch.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Fletcher.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Irwin.”

“What?”

“Irwin Fletcher. People call me Fletch.”

“Irwin Fletcher, I have a proposition to make to you. I will give you a thousand dollars for just listening to it. If you decide to reject the proposition, you take the thousand dollars, go away, and never tell anyone we talked.”

“Is it criminal?”

“Of course.”

“Fair enough. For a thousand dollars I can listen. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to murder me.”

Fletch said, “Sure.”

That’s how Gregory McDonald kicked off the pitch-perfect dialog in his novel Fletch back in 1974. Fletch is a jerk, an absolute pain to everyone he meets because he only cares about the story. He’s not a detective, he’s an investigative journalist and he’ll sacrifice anything–two marriages, relationships with employees, even a rich man’s life–for the sake of his column. 

While reading Fletch, I started my trek through dreamland (at Logan K’s recommendation). I’ve followed Lord Morpheus now through Preludes and Nocturnes, The Doll’s House and Dream Country. Here’s the thing, it’s not at all what I expected and that’s a very, very good thing. Had it been, I would not have made as many trips to the library last week. Gaiman seems to be toying with me, playing with his prey like some expert swordsman or panther. Unlike many authors that jump off the blocks toward whatever conclusion they seek, Gaiman keeps playing with the idea of the keeper of dreams and nightmares. How does that concept play out for death? For serial killers? For writers? For little girls? What would happen if… and he takes me down another winding trail into ancient England or  another plane of existence.

See I expect offensive banter between Fletch and his feminine coworkers, I expect to laugh. With Morpheus, I don’t know what to expect. Anything anything could come out of the land of dreams. Fletch deals his conflict through dialog, typically without even the courteous attribution of he said or she said. The Lord of Dream takes on Lucifer, serial killers and incarnate raw Desire. Fletch grounds me in the reality of a character that I believe, even now, exists somewhere. The Sandman? He pulls me into an unreality where I’m certain of few things, a place where, like cupid, he asks for another arrow (or bag of sand) to aim at my heart and I fletch one for him. He pulls and lets loose and I find myself pierced.

Looking forward to more of Gaiman and McDonald. One trillion stars out of five. I can recommend the first (Sandman) to any nerd that loves ethically ambiguous fantasy and doesn’t judge a book by its less-than-savory pictures. Keep out of reach of children. I can recommend the second (Fletch) to any adult who loves mystery or witty banter. No theme analysis today, but I’ll toy around with any questions if any of you have read any of those…