‘Lady Liberty.’ said Wednesday. ‘Like so many of the gods that Americans hold dear, a foreigner. In this case, a French woman, although, in deference to American sensibilities, the French covered up her magnificent bosom on that statue they presented to New York. Liberty,’ he continued, wrinkling his nose at the used condom that lay on the bottom flight of steps, toeing it to the side of the stairs with distaste – ‘ Someone could slip on that. Break their necks,’ he muttered, interrupting himself. ‘Like a banana peel, only with bad taste and irony thrown in.’ He pushed open the door, and the sunlight hit them. The world outside was colder than it had looked from indoors: Shadow wondered if there was more snow to come. ‘Liberty,’ boomed Wednesday, as they walked to his car, ‘is a bitch who must be bedded on a mattress of corpses.’
Well…Well, where do I begin with this. I confess my book loving friends that I did this wrong. I watched American Gods the TV series on Amazon before I read the book! I know, never watch before you read. But Lovejoy was in it. And I’ll be honest, because you know, if you can’t be honest in your blog just where can you be? I’d never really been interested in the book until I watched the TV series. After after I finished the series I sat there and thought, without a doubt that was the weirdest thing I have ever seen.
I bought the book, with the TV series cover, that is in fact, the directors cut equivalent, that it includes some 700 billion extra pages (the actual number may differ from this).
It’s my first Neil Gaiman book and I loved it. I loved the storytelling, a real world George R. R. Martin crossed with David Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks, you can just read and read and read and never want to put the book down, even when you don’t have a clue what is going on. but for you I will attempt to summarise (Cue spoiler alert). SPOILER ALERT.
Shadow Moon is getting released from jail, and he can’t wait to see his wife. Except for his wife is dead after being killed in a car accident with his best friend who coincidentally was her lover. So, heartbroken, Shadow is released early and after a little coercion, signs up to work for Mr Wednesday. As if someone who literally asks you what day of the week it is and then calls himself after that day isn’t suspicious at all. But you know, Shadow just doesn’t care right now.
Mr Wednesday is, well he’s different, and special and oh by the way did I mention he’s the Norse God Odin? Shadow slowly works this out until it’s pretty much smacking him round the face, as Wednesday starts rounding up the old gods, gods that have travelled across the sea from the old countries to the land of the free, for a ding dong with the new gods, technology, media, television etc. Shadow realises he is caught up in something beyond his comprehension, but also that his involvement is not completely by chance. Meanwhile, Laura, Shadow’s deceased wife, realises now she’s dead that she does in fact love Shadow and comes back to tell him and also help him with some new found supernatural powers. I mean, how does that work? Well the leprechaun has the answer there, obviously.
So while the old and the new square up, Shadow is having weird dreams and meeting even weirder and wonderful, and not so wonderful people, and trying to keep his head down and wrap his brains around everything, particularly why his dead wife is back and keeps talking to him.
I will confess further that I got slightly lost at the end, regarding Whisky Jack and the Buffalo man but that’s probably me being so excited I skim read some crucial points along the way, such is the pull of Gaiman’s story telling and my appalling attention span.
If you enjoy fantastic story telling, read this. To be honest you can watch the first season of the TV series which deviates from the plot somewhat, but I would still read the book first, because, well because I’m a book lover the book is pretty much without exception, always better than the celluloid adaptation. Gaiman includes lost of historical stories of how the gods were brought over from the old countries and slowly forgotten or replaced, and it all ads up to what is unquestionably an engrossing incredible epic of a book.
There was a girl, and her uncle sold her, wrote Mr Ibis in his perfect copper-plate handwriting.
That is the tale; the rest is detail.
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.