So, no one really dies, they just get forgotten, incarnated, float in the ether and are perhaps just ideas, visions, dreams in people's minds. Did I hate the book? No. Did I love it? Neither. Entertaining; love the idea of "American gods" per se, a great, lush background rooted in the history of American immigrants, interesting things about grifters and selling a cheap violin. But I felt myself looking for more, waiting for things to twist and untwist, for magic behind each door. What is that big let down of an ending? By then, I really wanted to read about Czernobog bashing Shadow's head in, marvel at each gory detailed description of blood and brains in a seedy, dusty, dirty appartment building in the middle of Chicago. Instead we have Shadow floating around the globe trying to escape bad places for gods. Phhhhttt. Yes, Gaiman is good at his craft, yes Gaiman has a truly vivid imagination, yes yes yes, he deserves all his awards and such. But. I think his journal is far more interesting at times. Onto Coraline.
10:20 AM | |
