Stephanie's Reviews > American Gods

American Gods by Neil Gaiman
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Central Iowa used to get hit by a lot of bad storms — thunderstorms, snowstorms, even the occasional thundersnow or funnel cloud. We’ve had our share of flash floods and white-out blizzards. But for the past year or so it seems like every storm that approaches somehow swirls perfectly around the city, never hitting us. This is good news for our basements, but bad news for people like me who love severe weather. A friend of mine explained to me that the weather bubble is caused by the Ledges state park, which splits storms off toward the north and south. I’m convinced there’s a budding young witch in the city who doesn’t know her own power just yet. Either way, storms show up on our radar and they look big and powerful and they approach… but they just seem to always be approaching, threatening, never actually hitting us, and then suddenly we realize they’ve passed and we hardly even saw a drop of precipitation.

That’s kind of what American Gods felt like to me.

It’s an interesting premise. Each culture has its own folklore and small gods and magical creatures who thrive on belief, and when people of those cultures immigrated to America, they sort of created American copies of those creatures. Many of them live among us and appear human and have ordinary traits like bad cooking and crappy cars and overactive sex drives. They’re hard to kill and their powers are mostly useless, and they’re not thriving here anymore because new generations of Americans don’t believe in them. We believe in the internet and television and celebrity instead, and we’ve created our own new gods. So the old gods and are rising up against the new.

Caught in the middle of all this is Shadow, who is such a blank canvas of a character i don’t even know how to feel about him. He’s not bad. He’s not really good, either. He just goes with the flow. He’s not stupid, but he doesn’t have thoughts or opinions or even questions about things for the vast majority of the book. He starts to give a shit at the end, but up until then i kind of don’t get him.

The story is mainly a midwestern road trip. Kind of boring and unglamorous. The characters are actually driving around the midwest in shitty vehicles, stopping at tourist traps and small towns, mainly to have brief chats with god people. Nothing much happens. It’s a story of a gathering storm, but the storm doesn’t even break. It gives one little clap of thunder and a few fat raindrops, so to speak, and then it’s over. A few mildly cool things and one giant and rather perplexing allegory happen at the end, but all in all i was left feeling underwhelmed.

There were a few short stories sprinkled throughout the first half about people who came to America and brought gods with them, or about the gods doing their weird things here in America. Those were kind of interesting, and i was sorry when they stopped happening. There wasn’t enough explanation of the American gods’ backstories for my taste. I could have and should have done a lot of Wikipedia searching while i read this book, but i was just trying to get through it.

I don’t really understand why there was a murder mystery sub-plot. I don’t think it added much to the story; it felt unnecessary and not very well developed.

I read this book because a lot of my friends really like it, and because i was in the mood for a darker fantasy. I thought it was enjoyable enough, but i don’t feel like i got it. It may be one of those stories that’s more fun the second time around when you know what’s really going on, so maybe i’ll listen to the author’s extended edition some day.
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Quotes Stephanie Liked

Neil Gaiman
“Hey," said Shadow. "Huginn or Muninn, or whoever you are."
The bird turned, head tipped, suspiciously, on one side, and it stared at him with bright eyes.
"Say 'Nevermore,'" said Shadow.
"Fuck you," said the raven.”
Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Neil Gaiman
“There was a girl, and her uncle sold her. Put like that it seems so simple.

No man, proclaimed Donne, is an island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived and then by some means or other, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes- forming patterns we have seen before, as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There's not a chance you'll mistake one for another, after a minute's close inspection) but still unique.

Without individuals we see only numbers, a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, "casualties may rise to a million." With individual stories, the statistics become people- but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child's swollen, swollen belly and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, this skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies' own myriad squirming children?

We draw our lines around these moments of pain, remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearllike, from our souls without real pain.

Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.

A life that is, like any other, unlike any other.

And the simple truth is this: There was a girl, and her uncle sold her.”
Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Neil Gaiman
“Religions are, by definition, metaphors, after all: God is a dream, a hope, a woman, an ironist, a father, a city, a house of many rooms, a watchmaker who left his prize chronometer in the desert, someone who loves you—even, perhaps, against all evidence, a celestial being whose only interest is to make sure your football team, army, business, or marriage thrives, prospers, and triumphs over all opposition. Religions are places to stand and look and act, vantage points from which to view the world. So none of this is happening. Such things could not occur. Never a word of it is literally true.”
Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Neil Gaiman
“Gods die. And when they truly die they are unmourned and unremembered. Ideas are more difficult to kill than people, but they can be killed, in the end.”
Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Neil Gaiman
“I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating.”
Neil Gaiman, American Gods
tags: men

Neil Gaiman
“The TV's the altar. I'm what people are sacrificing to.'
'What do they sacrifice?' asked Shadow.
'Their time, mostly,' said Lucy. 'Sometimes each other.”
Neil Gaiman, American Gods


Reading Progress

April 23, 2013 – Shelved
April 24, 2015 – Started Reading
April 24, 2015 –
10.0%
April 27, 2015 –
20.0%
April 30, 2015 –
33.0% "I wanted a book with kind of the same feel as The Magicians - realistic and a little gritty but magical at the same time - and this is definitely that. And i like how big it is; i can sink my teeth into it."
May 6, 2015 –
50.0%
May 21, 2015 –
70.0%
May 25, 2015 – Finished Reading
May 26, 2015 – Shelved as: fantasy
May 26, 2015 – Shelved as: i-own-a-hard-copy

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