Reading American Gods, I saw something new. Angles of light were cutting through what I’d read before, illuminating reality in ways I’d yet to experience. I saw a world that began to intrude on my own, fantasy that began to leak into reality. I saw a world that was a little more vicious than kind, a world of nitty gritty, of ambiguous morality, where people couldn’t be called good or evil because reducing them to those terms would be lazy, would discredit their complexities, their histories, their desires. A saw a world that was brutal in its magic, and thirsty for blood or sacrifice or both. I saw that fantasy could have teeth, sharp and shining, waving for me to follow down the rabbit hole.
The year his first child was born, Peter Damien read AMERICAN GODS over and over (and over and over).
It was a good book to get stuck on, because it’s big and rambling and baggy, something that I enjoy in books. There was a lot of space in there to crawl inside of and live in, in a way. I seriously doubt that if I had been reading a short, taut thriller-sort of a novel, that I would have gotten stuck on that. There wouldn’t have been enough weight in the book for me to lean on, and leaning is definitely what I was doing.