It's not just Neil Gaiman. There's a host of other authors, some obscure unknowns, others big names (Iain Banks, Jerzy Kosinski) who wrote something once that I read and it got lodged in my head somehow, and that thing will rise, unbidden and unasked for, and fill me with existential horror. Perhaps one day I should make a list of them, and try to analyse why they linger when other things fade; perhaps that would make it even less likely I'll ever forget them. My memory and I; it's one of those difficult relationships.
There are amazing things, too, stuck sideways in my memory. Like the poem High Windows by Philip Larkin. Here, let me link you to it, on Bookake. I'm always vaguely amused to find people trying to interpret High Windows online; arguing that he's talking about sin or getting old or envy or some such stuff. The poem self-analyses, is almost like a dictionary entry:
High Windows : The feeling of hope/envy/awe felt by the older generation when considering the new advantages/opportunities/freedoms now so available to the current generation that they cannot conceive of a time when they did not exist, and therefore percieve them as ordinary, and their minds turn to the next improvement.
This weekend past I found myself talking about the internet and suffered a High Windows moment, future shock and nostalgia intermingled, faint wash of sorrow for the awesome novelty that has become only ordinary; wild flash of hope for wonders yet to come.
Some comics I forgot to post earlier. There may be more.