Am I misunderstanding or projecting, or falling for the writer's angle, or does Neil Gaiman come off as a self-regarding asshole in this New Yorker profile? I've long been irritating by Gaiman's too-twee-for-twee persona, consider Sandman a great but overrated work, found Whatever Happened to the Dark Knight? a windy piece of fluff, and couldn't finish the precious and occasionally inept American Gods - but he is an interesting writer with both skill and talent. The article makes him sound like a navel-gazing self-promoting poseur with a more than slightly creepy weird-little-girl fixation (which, between the lines of the piece, seems to extend to his new choice of mate). Like David Bowie without the world-weariness and experience, unable to make his self-deprecation sound authentic. Or something.
(Like everyone else, I loved Good Omens - but it's not like Gaiman cowrote it with Joe the Unpublished Novelist.)
Anyhow, I'm torn. I don't want to react to this profile the way I do ('Neil Gaiman. So what'), so what therapy do I pursue? Do I have to start listening to cello-heavy chamber pop about people made of clockwork or something? Should I shave more regularly? Is Sandman better than I remember? Dam you, Internet, WHAT DO I DO?!