Comfort rereading, as it were. I've never actually sat down and read the whole thing before, because I read many of them as they came out. I plan to get through the rest of the pile tomorrow.
There's this thing that happens when you're writing historical fiction, or secret histories, or doing a lot of in-depth research in an attempt to construct a narrative, whatever narrative that might be. The pattern-sensing part of your brain starts picking out bits of synchronicity and coincidence and building a structure from them.
This is good, because it's where narrative comes from. It's bad, because it's what turns you into a conspiracy theorist, if you're not careful. And it certainly seems different in degree rather than type from the kind of patterning and ideation that characterize certain types of mental illness (schizophrenic delusions of reference) because you start telling yourself oh yes of course it all fits together, oh my god, I'm not making this up.
I know I'm not the only person this happens to, because I've heard Tim Powers talk about it too, and I bet it happens to historians and novelists with equal frequency. In its purest form, it turns out the kind of people who can argue convincingly for hours that Edward deVere wrote the plays of Shakespeare, or that the Kennedy assassinations are closely linked to John Lennon's killing. I suspect, actually, that I probably would have convinced myself of my own conspiracy theories while I was working on The Stratford Man (whatever they wind up being titled) if I hadn't been able to stop, look hard at myself, and say, "Bear. For this plot to work requires Faeries."
It was calming.
The Invisibles is exactly like that, except when somebody throws the switch that says "For this plot to work requires Tsathogghua, little green men, blacklight psychedelicism, an infusion of Michael Moorcock's DNA, and a love cannon," ...those things show up.
Also, Morrison writes some of the best one-liners in all comicdom.