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American Gods by Neil Gaiman

'Then he grinned, like a fox eating
shit from a barbed wire fence.'
God knows, you don't want me going on and on about my peccadilloes when it comes to the writing and groupies of Neil Gaiman*, but I do need to get something off my chest. In some respects, it's a criticism, but then Mr Gaiman had abso-fucking-lutely nothing at all to do with it. My disappointment, for it is such, stems from the fact that this is the first book by Neil Gaiman that I ever read, and because I chose it to start me off, has com-fucking-pletely ruined for me everything else he's written, and has actually put me off reading his other stuff. I can't help but admit I enjoyed watching Stardust the movie, and I did read with much relish the Jonathan Carroll-esque Ocean At The End Of The Lane after I found it in a charity shop for 99p. Oh, and his excellent children's picture book The Wolves in The Walls. I have found myself nodding knowingly as I pass the Gs on bookshelves but never pausing to pick up another Gaiman, because I'm afraid it won't be as good as this. 

Because this is GOOD. I trust the shouty lettering gives the lie to this understatement. Having read it first in the nineties, I wandered the literary landscape with a dream of it in my mind, gently guiding me to writers like Jim Dodge and Jonathan Carroll, from whom I inherited new fantasies, until the original dream began to fade, much like Shadow's revelations, learned during his nine-day vigil on the tree of life, and I found myself wondering what did happen in the end, just who Mr World was that Shadow recognised his voice, and what was it again that gave me the creeps about the town of Lakeside. 

And now I remember. 

It's a chunk of paperback at over 600 pages, but it never feels like a long book, so tightly packed and expertly corralled is the content, writhing about over itself like a sack of anacondas, all power, threat and mystery under the burlap. Shadow is a big, dumb guy with enough smarts to make him dangerous, the patsy of ancient ideas made flesh by the worship of millennia. A road trip, a folk story, a lament for the passing of the old ways and the inescapable encroachment of the new, it's also a slice of wintry Americana, filled with vivid portrayals of small town life and the personifications of deities old and new. There are images of suffering, of rebirth, heart-aching passages of loss and betrayal, humour and wit aplenty, and through it all an over-riding sense that here is a writer who understands the land about which he writes, who knows its peoples and traditions, its peccadilloes and peculiarities, and celebrates it all, good and bad. 

It also has the rare distinction of being a book I'll read again in another ten years, without doubt.

If you're a reader, and I mean someone who reads, not one of those who consumes the latest pulp bulk-bought by supermarkets and filling cardboard bins by the check-outs, you'll know about Neil Gaiman already. But if you've any friends who haven't cottoned-on, please do send them my way. Or better yet, buy them this book. But be prepared for them to have a similar reaction to mine.

*Of course, if you do you can read all about it over here.

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Damned If I Do by Percival Everett

Where I should be recovering from a particularly nasty stomach bug, rather I appear to be on a Percival Everett trip today - first Strom, now Damned - but he really is that good. Good as in read-everything-he's-written-now good. Good as in I'm writing this on my iPad never more than two meters from the nearest toilet good. That's good. 

Damned If I Do is short stories, yes. That I have a curious relationship with short fiction is undisputed, but there are some like Breece D'J Pancake and Haruki Murakami that just have to be read, objections or no. Thankfully, it appears Everett has inherited some of their ability to write convincing, understated and ultimately addictive snippets of prose. And snippets they are. Somewhere I read once a quote from China Mielville where he says he just loves it when writers don't show the reader the monster in its entirety, that leaving something of the horror to the imagination of his audience adds a level of engagement and makes the …

A Death In The Family: My Struggle Volume 1 by Karl Ove Knausgaard

I sit here, wearing my limited edition Knausgaard t-shirt, immensely grateful to the kind people at Vintage Books for their surprising gift of the first four novels (and aforementioned t-shirt) simply as a result of being able to post a comment on their YouTube Vlog. There may have been a hidden agenda, considering I'm a book blogger (What, interrobang, a book blogger, interrobang and so on...) but I prefer to believe they picked me at random. Because I'm ace. 
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First off, being intelligent and perspicacious readers as I trust you all to be, you will no doubt have spotted the whole Godwin&#…

Breakfast Of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut

In days gone by, when repeatedly pressed about what my favourite book might be, a banal question seeking an impossible and crude reductionist answer to which I was usually rude in response, I would offer Breakfast Of Champions as a pacifier. 

I first read it in University, and it has, to some degree, influenced how I think and feel about a lot of things. Strikingly, I've never wanted to re-read it. Perhaps I was afraid I'd find fault the second time around and wanted to uphold it as a paragon of meta-fiction. Perhaps, but then I'm a relentless consumer of fiction and was always on to the next consumable work, never having time or inclination to go back.

So in the spirit of a more considered and thoughtful phase of my life I decided I wanted to read something that once made me feel good.

I'd clearly not remembered it very well.

But before that, I'm amazed I've gone *mumbles* years without once mentioning Kilgore Trout in my reviews, even in passing. The same goes fo…

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Incidentally, below is, ironically, a Google Chrome Thesaurus definition* of "meta":

met·a Adjective/ˈmetə/
(of a creative work) Referring to itself or to the conventions of its genre; self-referentialInterestingly (not interesting, sorry) it says this for the full term, t…