Man, it’s nice to have more Sandman. Neil Gaiman’s Endless Nights just came out: seven stories, each about one of the seven Endless. (Death, Desire, Dream, Despair, Destruction, Delirium, Destruction, and Destiny, for those who don’t know. Tut tut. Get reading.) None of them are completely mind-blowing – or maybe it’s that I’m not a freshman in college any more, actively wanting my mind to be blown, stumbling on A Doll’s House at Schuler Books, and reading it all at once, standing up. Sandman has always spoken best to people juggling equal measures of adolescent angst, sensucht, and a love of historical miscellany and mythological trivia.

Endless Nights is going to accrue awards and sells lots and lots of copies, but I hope people don’t overlook the fact that it’s the seven artists that make it truly superb. Each is well-suited to represent the subject of his story, especially Milo Manara’s lush tale of Desire and Miguelanxo Prado’s ethereal Dream. They’re the ones who raise the roof in terms of quality; the stories are all right around Sandman-par, thought that’s still pretty darn good.

Much more to say, but I don’t want to self-censor to avoid spoilers, so I’ll save it for later.