In my third trip through a Neil Gaiman run, I ran into my favorite of the bunch, American Gods. The story follows Shadow, an ex-con who gets caught up in a battle between ancient Gods and new Gods, and it’s also an American road trip story (which I love). It’s a crazy mixture of fantasy, folklore, culture, history, and maybe even some slight horror vibes, and I loved it.
I feel like there’s a theme here with Gaiman and mythology/folklore/religion (this is my third Gaiman book in a row with these themes), but I really dig how he weaves it all together. American Gods is an effortlessly engaging read.
This is another one where I’m excited to finally be able to watch the show.
Next up, I’m taking a Gaiman break (although again – I loved everything I read from him), and I’m planning on re-reading Brandon Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive, to prepare for the release of the fifth book in that series.
Highlights
“You never learn how to write a novel,” he told me. “You only learn to write the novel you’re on.”
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So he kept himself in shape, and taught himself coin tricks, and thought a lot about how much he loved his wife.
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One thing he had learned early, you do your own time in prison. You don’t do anyone else’s time for them. Keep your head down. Do your own time.
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“This came from the Johnson Memorial Hospital in Eagle Point…Your wife. She died in the early hours of this morning. It was an automobile accident. I’m sorry.”
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If Hell is other people, thought Shadow, then Purgatory is airports.
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“So,” said Mr. Wednesday. “You’ve had time to think, Shadow. Do you want a job?”
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The bearded man lit his cigarette. “I’m a leprechaun,” he said. Shadow did not smile. “Really?” he said. “Shouldn’t you be drinking Guinness?” “Stereotypes. You have to learn to think outside the box,” said the bearded man. “There’s a lot more to Ireland than Guinness.”
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“Someone once told me that you only get those everybody-shuts-up-at-once moments at twenty past or twenty to the hour,” said Shadow.
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Shadow thought there was a lot to be said for bottling up emotions. If you did it long enough and deep enough, he suspected, pretty soon you wouldn’t feel anything at all.
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“So,” said Wednesday. “Why’d they call you Shadow?” Shadow shrugged. “It’s a name,” he said.
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Chicago happened slowly, like a migraine.
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“That is why you are a good fortune-teller,” said Zorya Utrennyaya. She looked sleepy, as if it were an effort for her to be up so late. “You tell the best lies.”
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“I feel,” Shadow told her, “like I’m in a world with its own sense of logic. Its own rules. Like when you’re in a dream, and you know there are rules you mustn’t break, but you don’t know what they are or what they mean. I have no idea what we’re talking about, or what happened today, or pretty much anything since I got out of jail. I’m just going along with it, you know?”
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“Is that before or after your elderly Slavic Charles Atlas crushes my skull with one blow?” “His eyesight’s going,” said Wednesday reassuringly. “He’ll probably miss you entirely.
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“This is the only country in the world,” said Wednesday, into the stillness, “that worries about what it is.” “What?” “The rest of them know what they are. No one ever needs to go searching for the heart of Norway. Or looks for the soul of Mozambique. They know what they are.”
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Roadside attractions: people feel themselves being pulled to places where, in other parts of the world, they would recognize that part of themselves that is truly transcendent, and buy a hot dog and walk around, feeling satisfied on a level they cannot truly describe, and profoundly dissatisfied on a level beneath that.”
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There’s definitely nothing out of the ordinary about Disney World. But some parts of Florida are filled with real magic. You just have to keep your eyes open. Ah, for the mermaids of Weeki Wachee…Follow me, this way.”
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“A man’s fortune is his own affair,” said Wednesday, stiffly. “I would not ask to see yours.”
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EVERY ENDING IS A NEW BEGINNING. YOUR LUCKY NUMBER IS NONE. YOUR LUCKY COLOR IS DEAD. Motto: LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON.
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“Let me tell you somethin’,” said Mr. Nancy. “It can be a long time between meals. Someone offers you food, you say yes. I’m no longer young as I was, but I can tell you this, you never say no to the opportunity to piss, to eat, or to get half an hour’s shut-eye. You follow me?”
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Then the lights went out, and Shadow saw the gods.
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Wednesday said, “You have already lost everything. I am offering you the chance to take something back.”
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I don’t really believe, Shadow thought. I don’t believe any of this. Maybe I’m still fifteen. Mom’s still alive and I haven’t even met Laura yet. Everything that’s happened so far has been some kind of especially vivid dream.
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All we have to believe with is our senses: the tools we use to perceive the world, our sight, our touch, our memory. If they lie to us, then nothing can be trusted. And even if we do not believe, then still we cannot travel in any other way than the road our senses show us; and we must walk that road to the end.
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“It’s easier to kill people, when you’re dead yourself,” she told him. “I mean, it’s not such a big deal. You’re not so prejudiced any more.” “It’s still a big deal to me,” said Shadow.
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And finally, producing a half-rueful grin, he realized that most of all he wanted everything to be normal. He wanted never to have gone to prison, for Laura to still be alive, for none of this ever to have happened.
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“Say ‘Nevermore,’” said Shadow. “Fuck you,” said the raven.
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“Because I’m a damsel in distress,” she said, “and you are a knight in whatever. A really dirty car. You know someone wrote Wash Me! on your rear windshield?”
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“The TV’s the altar. I’m what people are sacrificing to.” “What do they sacrifice?” asked Shadow. “Their time, mostly,” said Lucy.
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“You don’t want to ask after the health of anyone, if you’re a funeral director. They think maybe you’re scouting for business,” said Mr. Ibis, in an undertone.
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The really dangerous people believe that they are doing whatever they are doing solely and only because it is without question the right thing to do. And that is what makes them dangerous.”
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when you don’t know where you’re going it always seems longer—you ever notice that? First time takes forever, and then ever after it’s over in a flash?”
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This was not simply cold: this was science fiction.
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Entering the casino one is beset at every side by invitation—invitations such that it would take a man of stone, heartless, mindless, and curiously devoid of avarice, to decline them.
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For most people do not gamble to win money, after all, although that is what is advertised, sold, claimed and dreamed. But that is merely the easy lie that allows the gamblers to lie to themselves, the big lie that gets them through the enormous, ever-open, welcoming doors. The secret is this: people gamble to lose money.
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He suspected that there wasn’t much that hadn’t happened in Las Vegas at some point or other.
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“And I know an eighteenth charm, and that charm is the greatest of all, and that charm I can tell to no man, for a secret that no one knows but you is the most
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But it was a dream, and in dreams, sometimes, you have no choices: either there are no decisions to be made, or they were made for you long before ever the dream began.
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Wednesday said, “What the hell else can I do? They don’t sacrifice rams or bulls to me. They don’t send me the souls of killers and slaves, gallows-hung and raven-picked. They made me. They forgot me. Now I take a little back from them. Isn’t that fair?”
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It’s true what they say, thought Shadow. If you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.
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There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to others’ pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but, for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it to.
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No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each others’ tragedies.
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Power came from the rituals, not from the gods.
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“You only get to be my age by assuming the worst.” Shadow smiled. “And how old would that be?” “Old as my tongue,” said Wednesday. “And a few months older than my teeth.”
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Harry Bluejay told them the car drank oil, but as long as you kept pouring oil in, it would just keep running forever, unless it stopped.
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Shadow always had high hopes for haircuts, but they never lived up to his expectations.
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“I’m alive,” said Shadow. “I’m not dead. Remember?” “You’re not dead,” she said. “But I’m not sure that you’re alive, either. Not really.” This isn’t the way this conversation goes, thought Shadow. This isn’t the way anything goes.
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the story of a traveler who had slipped down a cliff, with man-eating tigers above him and a lethal fall below him, who managed to stop his fall halfway down the side of the cliff, holding on for dear life. There was a clump of strawberries beside him, and certain death above him and below. What should he do? went the question. And the reply was, Eat the strawberries. The story had never made any sense to him as a boy. It did now.
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“Mister Ainsel,” he said. “Mike. I’m truly sorry about this. I appreciate how easy you’ve been about all this. Personally, I like you. But that don’t change anything, you know?” Shadow said he knew. “I got no choice in the matter,” said Chad, “but to place you under arrest for violating your parole.” Then Police Chief Chad Mulligan read Shadow his rights.
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“It’s a big country,” said Wednesday, marshaling his thoughts. He moved his head and the scarlet glitter-blur slipped to his cheek, a red laser-pointer dot. Then it edged up to his glass eye once more. “There is room for—” There was a bang, muted by the television speakers, and the side of Wednesday’s head exploded. His body tumbled backward.
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Determining the exact center of anything can be problematic at best.
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“Which is why,” concluded Mr. Nancy, as they drove into Humansville, Missouri (pop. 1,084), “the exact center of America is a tiny run-down park, an empty church, a pile of stones, and a derelict motel.”
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“There was only one guy in the whole Bible Jesus ever personally promised a place with him in Paradise. Not Peter, not Paul, not any of those guys. He was a convicted thief, being executed. So don’t knock the guys on death row. Maybe they know something you don’t.”
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“I offered you the world,” she said. “When you’re dying in a gutter, you remember that.” “I’ll make a point of it,” he said.
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“So tell me,” said Shadow, “why does everyone care about me? They act like I’m important. Why does it matter what I do.” “You’re an investment,” said Loki. “You were important to us because you were important to Wednesday. As for the why of it…I don’t think any of us know. He did. He’s dead. Just another one of life’s little mysteries.”
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The tree was in Virginia. It was a long way away from anywhere, on the back of an old farm. To get to the farm they had to drive for almost an hour south from Blacksburg, to drive roads with names like Pennywinkle Branch and Rooster Spur.
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I could be blindfolded and dropped into the deepest ocean and I would know where to find you. I could be buried a hundred miles underground and I would know where you are.”
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yawned, showing a perfect, dark-pink tongue. “Think of us as symbols—we’re the dream that humanity creates to make sense of the shadows on the cave wall.
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We do not always remember the things that do no credit to us. We justify them, cover them in bright lies or with the thick dust of forgetfulness
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“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I can get some kind of a happy ending.” “Not only are there no happy endings,” she told him. “There aren’t even any endings.”
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Mr. Jacquel opened the last door for Shadow, and behind that door there was nothing. Not darkness. Not even oblivion. Only nothing. Shadow accepted it, completely and without reservation, and he walked through the door into nothing with a strange fierce joy.
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Then he said, “If he is gone forever, it is all over.” “But the battle—” “If he is lost, it will not matter who wins.”
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“But. They’ll die out anyway. They are passenger pigeons and thylacines. Yes? Who cares? This way, it’s going to be a bloodbath. If we just wait them out, we get the whole thing.”
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Religions are places to stand and look and act, vantage points from which to view the world.
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Listen, gods die when they are forgotten. People too. But the land’s still here. The good places, and the bad. The land isn’t going anywhere. And neither am I.”
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“I can see that,” said Shadow. “You two weren’t betraying either side. You were betraying both sides.” “I guess we were at that,” said Wednesday.
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“You needed a son,” said Shadow. Wednesday’s ghost-voice echoed. “I needed you, my boy. Yes. My own boy. I knew that you had been conceived, but your mother left the country.
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People believe, thought Shadow. It’s what people do. They believe. And then they will not take responsibility for their beliefs; they conjure things, and do not trust the conjurations. People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales. People imagine, and people believe: and it is that belief, that rock-solid belief, that makes things happen.
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Shadow shook his head. “You know,” he said, “I think I would rather be a man than a god. We don’t need anyone to believe in us. We just keep going anyhow. It’s what we
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“The Herodotus thing. It doesn’t mean that the dead are happy,” said Shadow. “It means that you can’t judge the shape of someone’s life until it’s over and done.”
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They crossed the border into Florida, and Shadow saw his first palm tree. He wondered if they’d planted it there on purpose, at the border, just so that you knew you were in Florida now.
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“Are you a god?” asked Shadow. The buffalo-headed man shook his head. Shadow thought, for a moment, that the creature was amused. “I am the land,” he said.
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Hinzelmann’s face was expressionless. “They were giving their children to me before the Romans came to the Black Forest,” he said. “I was a god before ever I was a kobold.”
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It had been a good kiss, Shadow reflected, but Sam had never looked at him the way she was looking at the pigtailed girl, and she never would. “What the hell. We’ll always have Peru,” he said, under his breath, as Sam walked away from him. “And El Paso. We’ll always have that.”
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The head of the sledgehammer was cold, icy cold, and it touched his forehead as gently as a kiss. “Pock! There,” said Czernobog. “Is done.” There was a smile on his face that Shadow had never seen before, an easy, comfortable smile, like sunshine on a summer’s day. The old man walked over to the case, and he put the hammer away, and closed the bag, and pushed it back under the sideboard.
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“Then why? Why didn’t you kill me when you could?” The old man took out an unfiltered cigarette from a pack in his pocket. He took a large box of matches from the mantelpiece and lit the cigarette with a match. He seemed deep in thought. “Because,” said the old man, after some time, “there is blood. But there is also gratitude. And it has been a long, long winter.”
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He wondered whether home was a thing that happened to a place after a while, or if it was something that you found in the end, if you simply walked and waited and willed it long enough.
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