Well. Alan Moore's a very clever fellow, you certainly can't deny that. Not that this book will let you. Virtually every page can be pored over for references to some literary or pseudo-literary or pulp work: newspaper headlines, street names, background details, nameless characters--they all (presumably, since I can't figure out all of them) reference or come from somewhere. It is of course a massive and complex task to weave every fiction and fictional world you can think of into a single narrative, and Moore does manage generally to paper over the obvious gaps and inconsistencies and problems with doing so, making it all feel more or less coherent. However, maybe this is just me, but I find myself engaged more with figuring out all the references than with the story, which is basically a simple chase tale, as Mina and Quatermain acquire the eponymous Black Dossier and then get chased by James Bond (who tries to rape Mina and is presented as a sociopath, Moore's propensity for the desecration of previous literary models continuing unabated here, with generally unappealing results), Emma Peel, and Bulldog Drummond to get it back, meeting every other late nineteenth through mid twentieth century literary figure Moore can jam in along the way. So, as a story, not that engaging. Furthermore, in addition to being a clever metatext weaving in all kind sof literary references, this book also wants to present itself as being a dossier consisting of an array of different kinds of documents: official reports, Tijuana Bible, pulp novel, lost Shakespearean folio, postcards, etc.--so you get to be impressed by another level of cleverness. The dossier contents offer a multitude of sources that relate the origin not only of the League but also of all spectacular and unusually-powered folk in human history, in a kind of League-universe cosmology and theogeny. This idea's interesting enough in its own way, but it doesn't work well because of Moore's insistence on doing it all via parody and pastiche. Moore does a pretty good Shakespeare, a passable John Cleland, an okay P. G., Woodhouse, but a weak Orwell and an unreadable Kerouac. Even when the pastiches/parodies are solid, though, they simply bog down the book; Moore lacks the genius for gelling prose and comics Dave Sim displayed at his best. I mean, I give him points for ambition, and for nerve (trying to reclaim the gollywog from the Noddy books is almost as risky as the pornographic treatment he gave Alice and company in Lost Girls), but ultimately the result falls flat and sterile. It comes across as an exercise in cleverness and show-off pyrotechnics, rather than as an actual story. And this is a pity, as Moore can tell a hell of a story when he decides to do so, rather than going on (and on) yet again about the importance of story in a metafictional jigsaw puzzle.