Feminism in the Worlds of Neil Gaiman Read online

  Calliope’s meditations are interrupted by a disrobing Madoc, celebrating his latest literary success. He is no longer the nervous, doubting man from the initial panels of the story, but rather a self-assured, violent villain who cracks jokes about making “two and a half minutes of squelching noises” with his captive (17:11). “You’re my personal muse, sweetheart,” he tells Calliope, “Now. Let’s party” (17:11). If the reader had any remaining sympathy for Madoc by this point, it is now gone. Curiously, as he becomes more and more an object of loathing, the details of Madoc’s literary success align him with another celebrated, multi-talented writer who transcends genres: Neil Gaiman. Madoc is a cautionary tale against hubris, the embodiment of what writers fear they must give up in order to be successful, a “sell-out” on a hideous new scale. As Justine Gieni notes in her essay about the rhetoric of rape in “Calliope,” “Fry is Madoc’s monstrous double, who mirrors his ambition, perversion, and malevolence.” Yet in addition to the two fictional fiction-writers being doubles for one another, they are also doubles for the nonfictional fiction writer behind the entire tale.

  “I had a lot of trouble getting it to work,” Gaiman says about “Calliope” (Bender 68). The issue’s artist, Jones, recalls Gaiman’s own struggles with writer’s block during the genesis of the story:

  I sat down and read over what Neil had sent, the initial thing he threw out. It was something that was supposed to be called “Sex and Violets,” but he never did that. [...] Neil said, “No, it was terrible, dreadful, forget about it. I’ll get something to you.” I waited and waited and finally it came. He kept apologizing. He had had writer’s block, and then “Calliope” came [McCabe 87].

  Perhaps it is not too much of a stretch to imagine that Gaiman’s writer’s block during “Sex and Violets” fed into the sex and violence in “Calliope.” “Calliope” emerged out of Gaiman’s own battles with writer’s block. The parallels between Gaiman and his horrible reflection are present in the artwork as well. For example, Gaiman sent Jones “a bunch of reference photos” of his own office, which then became the basis of Madoc’s office in “Calliope” (Bender 69). Madoc’s rise to fame also follows a trajectory very like the one Gaiman experienced. He does the talk show circuits, cuts movie deals, attends packed book release parties, and earns critical accolades. He mimics the same meteoric rise to commercial fame that Gaiman was just beginning to experience in the early 1990s.5

  In many ways, Madoc faces a familiar dilemma that resurfaces in many genres, from Dorian Gray selling his soul in order to stay young to the villagers of Ursula Le Guin’s Omelas attaining great happiness at the expense of one terribly suffering individual. Each scenario asks: What would you be willing to sacrifice in order to achieve your dream? Would you sell your humanity? “Calliope” dramatizes the author’s typical fear of “selling out” or compromising principles in the pursuit of success.

  By May 1987, Madoc is a roaring success, which the comic presents through a depiction of the launch party for his new novel. Ironically, the title of Madoc’s rape-generated book (My Love, She Gave Me Light), like Fry’s before him (Here Comes a Candle), references knowledge given to the author from a female source. It is the romanticized title of what the reader now knows should actually be My Victim, I Stole Her Life. The oblivious, besotted fans at the party, however, have no reason to see the dark inspiration behind Madoc’s success. Gaiman heightens the irony by depicting a scene between a fawning female fan and Madoc. “I loved your characterization of Aileen. There aren’t enough strong women in fiction,” notes the young blonde (17:12). “Actually, I do tend to regard myself as a feminist writer,” Madoc boasts in return (17:12).

  In this exchange, Gaiman presciently describes one of the very qualities that his work also became known for: the characterization of strong women. Yet we cannot know for certain if Madoc’s female characters truly are feminist, or whether his own elaborate façade merely translates onto his characters. Madoc is so removed from reality, so cynical and self-serving, that he doesn’t see the hypocrisy of the situation—that he must rape a female deity in order to write strong female characters. Is this scene an example of how strong Calliope’s power is—that through her rape, even the most loathsome and misogynist of writers can nonetheless create feminist characters? Or is it perhaps that Calliope expresses herself in some way through Madoc’s characters, and the gradual increase in their strength aligns with Calliope’s own resistance? As the readers observe a scene of other readers, it forces them to ascertain their own ethical position. If the real-world readers had access to My Love, She Gave Me Light, would they also be struck by how wonderfully strong Aileen is? And does it matter how vile the author is, if the work is good? At the very least, Gaiman asks readers to more actively question which authors and works they read as “feminist”—including his own.

  In a roundtable session on Gaiman and feminism at the 2012 National Popular Culture and American Culture Association joint conference, several scholars and Gaiman fans hotly debated this very issue.6 One of the most obvious shortfalls in Gaiman’s work is the lack of racial diversity—most of his heroines, like Calliope, are white women. Another common concern raised the possible disconnect between what Gaiman intends as the author and what the reader takes away from his work. For example, in the case of “Calliope,” Gaiman clearly intended for the naked drawings to inspire pity and horror rather than lust, but when a fourteen-year-old boy reads the issue, what is his reaction? Writers cannot control the reception of their works, of course, but intent and reception are considerations when thinking about feminism and literary production. It is important when considering Gaiman as a feminist to place his work in its cultural context and time—when Sandman was first published, there were hardly any mainstream comic depictions of women as anything other than sexy villains, virginal damsels in distress, and balloon-breasted heroines. Curiously Gaiman’s very success in the 1990s is partly what led to his female characters sometimes falling short of our expectations two decades later. Today’s comic readers are the lucky inheritors of a graphic novel and comic book renaissance largely made possible by authors like Gaiman. He knew that comics had a great untapped potential as a medium for telling women’s stories and the success of his stories contributed to women artists and writers breaking through Wonder Woman’s invisible glass ceiling. Ultimately, the launch party scene from “Calliope” indicates that readers should be critical of works and authors that we claim as “feminist,” but more importantly, that we should make the determination for ourselves.

  The disconnect between the feminist elements of Madoc’s book and the misogyny of his character brings Roland Barthes to mind, except in “Calliope,” the “death of the author” becomes quite literal—Erasmus Fry commits suicide after he can no longer publish without Calliope and idea-frenzied Madoc is writing himself to death. Gaiman repeatedly aligns Madoc with himself, perhaps even anticipating his inclusion in a book like the one you are holding right now. He cautions us to question whether or not his work has earned the title of “feminist.” It’s a fascinating moment where Gaiman creates a character like himself only to tear him down. If we are already wondering whether or not we should read this story as feminist, Gaiman, through Madoc, is warning us not to. Yet inviting critique in the interest of continuing discussion is an important feminist goal.

  Through the foil of Madoc, Gaiman also embeds his own warning about the perils and prices of success. Fry and Madoc wrote “huge, towering romances,” but the true source of their work is locked in a tower, and there is nothing romantic about rape (17:14). Madoc has adopted the trendy moniker “Ric” and the overweening attitude to match. By presenting Madoc’s hypocrisy, Gaiman not only cautions against self-aggrandizing, but also offers a critique of using feminism as a selling point, or at least, hints that as readers, we should look deeper into the works we view as feminist. Following so closely to Madoc’s “feminist writer” statement that her speech bubble actually touches his, the young woman
at the party poses that tell-tale question, “Where do you get your ideas?” (17:12).

  This is a question that continually dogs Gaiman himself. He discusses it in several interviews, and even created a short comic with Bryan Talbot entitled “An Honest Answer: ‘Where Do You Get Your Ideas?’” The comic features a caricature of the author, in his trademark black sunglasses and leather jacket, stating, “It’s a question writers are asked all the time. And we don’t tell any of you how we get our ideas because it’s a secret—deeply, inextricably linked with the entire creative process” (McCabe 144). Gaiman’s character then carries a candelabra and ascends a narrow staircase to an attic room to ask “the infinite” for “an idea for a four-page comic strip.” The existence of the strip itself shows that the infinite obliged.

  Madoc, of course, doesn’t need to ask “the infinite” for inspiration; he simply takes it. Finally, as Madoc’s accolades reach a crescendo and Calliope nearly withers away into nothingness, Dream arrives. He is the first character to clearly acknowledge Calliope as a living, feeling being. “You are keeping a woman imprisoned here, Richard Madoc. Keeping her against her will. I have come to request that you set her free,” he states (17:16). Dream’s white-text words may technically be a request; his glowing red eyes, folded arms, imposing stature, and blue-black leather jacket imply otherwise. “There’s no woman here,” Madoc denies (17:16). In this moment, Madoc pathetically attempts to uphold the farce he has established throughout the story, to deny Calliope’s selfhood in order to justify his actions. But while he may be able to fool himself, and to fool others, he doesn’t have a shot at fooling Dream. For once, Madoc is in the passive, powerless position, and his attempts to fight it are comically useless. “There’s a law against people like you!” he self-righteously shrieks (17:17).

  Up until this point in the story, Gaiman relies on the images rather than the text to deliver the most devastating messages. Once Dream arrives, however, the terrible horrors are described in verbal terms. Dream lays out in language what the earlier panels illustrated in visuals: “She has been held captive for more than sixty years. Stripped of all possessions. Demeaned, abused, and hurt. I ... know how she must feel” (17:17). Dream identifies with Calliope, something Madoc has worked hard to avoid. Disgusted by Madoc’s denials, which continue even up until the end, Dream finally gives Madoc what he’s always wanted: “IDEAS IN ABUNDANCE” (17:17). Madoc then realizes the horror of getting what you wish for: Dream gives him an endless, overwhelming, maddening supply of ideas.

  Madoc awakes, wondering if his encounter with Dream was merely a “weird dream” from Calliope. She informs him that he has been visited by her former lover, then, for the first time in the story, brutally and graphically phrases her experience for him: “I am real, Richard. I am more than a receptacle for your seed, or an inspiration for your tales” (17:18). As Madoc’s rhetorical abilities plummet, Calliope’s return in full, devastating force.

  Not until Madoc goes completely mad, scribbling his incoherent stories with the blood of his finger-stumps, does he finally acknowledge for the first time that Calliope is a person. “At the top of the house, there’s a room. There’s a woman in there. Let her out,” he begs a friend (17:21). She is no longer a thing, no longer “his most valuable possession,” but a woman (17:13). Madoc’s friend goes to the house and heads to the bedroom where Calliope was kept in order to free her. However, he discovers only an empty room—and a copy of Erasmus Fry’s out-of-print favorite novel, Here Comes a Candle, lying in the center of light on the floor. It is the first time in “Calliope” that the reader sees the book’s cover, which depicts a woman in profile with impossibly long, light hair, carrying a candle. The corny pulp novel subtitle reads, “She was his muse—and the slave of his lust!” In this self-reflexive moment, Gaiman takes the plot of his own comic, summarizes it in ten words, and places it on a story-within-a-story.

  Finally, Calliope is free, restored to her former glory, clothed in Grecian robes with coiffed hair and long tight curls. She has been rescued, but she does not follow her prince from the tower. Dream respectfully keeps his distance from his former lover, the mother of his child, and they go their separate ways. With Calliope released and Dream departed, Madoc finally reverts to where he started, bereft of creative inspiration. “It’s gone. I’ve got no idea any more. No idea at all,” he states in the last panel of the story (17:24).

  It sounds paradoxical to say that a story with rape as a key plot device, that depicts a woman as helpless and features a knight in shining armor (or a Dream in shining night), is feminist. But the act of putting on the page the horrible logic of rape is part of what makes this work feminist. Gaiman uses everyday tropes and situations and extends them to horrific conclusions. He draws to the surface issues that are normally erased in order to force us to see them and question them. He invites us to turn this same introspection and critique against him, even demands that we do so. “Calliope” is not comfortable to read, but it is immensely powerful. This experience has been described by one close Gaiman friend and unlikely “Calliope” fan—Tori Amos.

  When asked in 1994, “What piece of Neil’s work has had the most resonance for you, specifically?” Amos answered, “Calliope” (Hibbs). Given that Amos is a rape survivor and that she co-founded the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN), is it hard to imagine what the experience of first reading “Calliope” was like for her. One would expect Amos would identify solely with the title heroine. But in her interviews, Amos highlights the connection not with Calliope as the victim of rape, but with Madoc as the victim of ambition. “It’s not like he’s a bad guy,” she states, “He just bought into something, like I have, like we all have. And it’s understanding what these choices cost, and then are we willing to take responsibility when we do something to somebody else?” (Hibbs). She continues, “I understood what it was like for the guy, not being able to write. And how he would do anything to be able to write again.” Curiously, Amos also credits Gaiman as one of her “male muses” (McCabe 204).

  Amos first encountered Gaiman’s work through a friend who was staying with her. He brought several Sandman comics, including the first work of Gaiman’s that Amos had ever read: “Calliope.” In an interview published in the fan zine The Magian Line, Amos states that she relates to Gaiman’s female characters because “he has a lot of respect for women” (Hibbs). She was powerfully changed by her first encounters with Sandman, so much so that they bled into the album that she was working on at the time: Little Earthquakes. Inspired by Sandman, Amos famously wrote Gaiman into the lyrics for one of her songs even though she had yet to meet him.7 The friend who introduced Amos to Gaiman’s comics took a demo tape of her songs to the San Diego Comic-Con and gave the tape to Gaiman.8 The rest is history.9

  When recommending “Calliope” to new readers, one feels compelled to warn them: “It’s pretty graphic.” The depictions of sexual violence in The Sandman are “pretty” graphic, in multiple senses: the issues are considerably violent and visually appealing. The acts of sexual violence in Gaiman’s graphic novels are particularly unsettling to the reader, as they should be. And yet we read them and reread them. Even Amos says, “the ‘Calliope’ piece, I reread it a lot, and it makes me remember about where I stand with myself, and why I do certain things” (Hibbs). Through works like “Calliope,” Gaiman continues to challenge the perceptions of what comics can be, what they can do, and how they are a site of untapped potential for revolutionary female characters and explorations. Although some issues came closer to feminist ideals than others, feminist readings of Sandman continue to reveal new possibilities of this earth-shattering series.

  NOTES

  1. “Calliope” maintains this page placement in its original single issue format, in the 1995 DC Comics / Vertigo trade paperback, and in the 1997 “Essential Vertigo” reprint. When it was published in 2006’s Absolute Sandman, the page placement unfortunately changed, shifting the door-opening scene from the ri
ght page to the left. In this edition, the connection between turning a page and opening the door is still there visually and metaphorically, if not physically.

  2. Gaiman clearly meant for the specter of the Holocaust to be present, as his script notes specify concentration camp victims and at the end of the comic, Madoc raves about “a holocaust of some kind” (17:19). The text references the Holocaust as a reminder that an examination of one person’s abuse is a study in understanding much larger atrocities. In this move, Gaiman ties his story about one individual’s act of violence to violence on a large scale. The story implies that the same dissociation and self-justification that allow a person to commit rape and other acts of sexual violence are the same mental gymnastics that eventually allowed “ordinary men” to kill in devastating numbers.

  3. “Well, you don’t exactly have trouble-free relationships, do you?” Desire later goads her brother at a family reunion. “Let’s see ... there was that little one in Greece, what was her name? Carousel? Something like that” (21:18).

  4. Because Calliope is the muse of epic poetry, she is frequently depicted holding a tablet or scroll. Therefore, Fry’s theft of the scroll could be seen as stealing her writing. It gives him complete power over her.

  5. Madoc also appears on the television show The Book Nook, whose host, curiously enough, was physically modeled on writer and Sandman contributor Kim Newman.

  6. Another sign of Gaiman’s self-awareness in terms of his writing and the character of Madoc comes in the form of poking fun at literary conferences and fan conventions. In issue 14, he presents a “cereal convention” with a panel discussion on “Women in Serial Killing.” The panelist named Dog Soup offers her twisted feminist manifesto: “I tell you, I’m sick and tired of women in our line being stereotyped as black widows or killer nurses. I’m a serial killer, and a woman, and I’m proud of it” (14:26). This issue is also notable for several instances of sexual violence, including an assault on the character Rose and a terrible rape joke told by the emcee Nimrod.