A review by saturdayreaderinpink
American Gods by Neil Gaiman

adventurous challenging dark medium-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? A mix
  • Strong character development? Yes
  • Loveable characters? It's complicated
  • Diverse cast of characters? Yes
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated

3.5

General Thoughts

This was fantastic in many, many ways. Gaiman writes with mysterious authority composed of mysticism and absurd amounts of ultra-specific detail that makes his story feel alive. All plot points wrap up satisfyingly. The one reservation I have is the themes of race in American Gods. Most of it felt respectful to me (a white girl who’s knowledge of the cultures covered is limited), but some of the descriptions of skin color and
the ending part where the buffalo is the land and tells Shadow that the gods and people who brought them are there because they suit the land
, would not surprise me if critiqued. This book kept me guessing and some plot twists swept me away. Gaiman is, again, an excellent writer. American Gods is worth the read.

Favorite Quotes

“Something feels weird,” he told Laura. That wasn’t the first thing he said to her. The first thing was “I love you,” because it’s a good thing to say if you can mean it, and Shadow did.

Every hour wounds. The last one kills.—OLD SAYING

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. “I’m afraid that’s not exactly an option, m’boy,” he thought to himself, in Wednesday’s gruff voice, and he nodded agreement. Not an option. You burned your bridges. So keep walking. Do your own time…

No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong.

She turns to pretty Marie and sees herself through Marie’s eyes, a black-skinned old woman, her face lined, her bony arm hanging limply by her side, her eyes the eyes of one who has seen her children fight in the trough for food from the dogs. She saw herself, and she knew then for the first time the revulsion and the fear the younger woman had for her.

Whiskey Jack reached out a hand the color of the red clay, and he touched Shadow’s face, gently. His irises were light brown banded with dark brown, and in that face those eyes seemed luminous. “Eyah,” he said. “It’s true. If you hunt the thunderbird you could bring your woman back. But she belongs to the wolf, in the dead places, not walking the land.” “How do you know?” asked Shadow. Whiskey Jack’s lips did not move. “What did the Buffalo tell you?” “To believe.” “Good advice. Are you going to follow it?” “Kind of. I guess.” They were talking without words, without mouths, without sound. Shadow wondered if, for the other two men in the room, they were standing, unmoving, for a heartbeat or for a fraction of a heartbeat. “When you find your tribe, come back and see me,” said Whiskey Jack. “I can help.” “I shall.”

The madman nodded. “Horus,” he said. “I am the falcon of the morning, the hawk of the afternoon. I am the sun. As you are the sun. And I know the true name of Ra. My mother told me.” “That’s great,” said Shadow, politely.

“I feed on death that is dedicated to me,” said Wednesday. “Like my death on the tree,” said Shadow. “That,” said Wednesday, “was special.”
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