A worthy sequel to American Gods. A raucous celebration of the power of stories and music.
Quotes:
YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. YOU PICK UP A BOOK, flip to the dedication, and find that, once again, the author has dedicated a book to someone else and not to you. Not this time. Because we haven’t yet met/have only a glancing acquaintance/are just crazy about each other/ haven’t seen each other in much too long/are in some way related/will never meet, but will, I trust, despite that, always think fondly of each other…. This one’s for you. With you know what, and you probably know why.
IT BEGINS, AS MOST THINGS BEGIN, WITH A SONG. In the beginning, after all, were the words, and they came with a tune. That was how the world was made, how the void was divided, how the lands and the stars and the dreams and the little gods and the animals, how all of them came into the world. They were sung.
Impossible things happen. When they do happen, most people just deal with it.
“Did they really sell this wine here?” “They had a bottle they didn’t know they had. They just needed to be reminded.”
Like all sentient beings, Fat Charlie had a weirdness quotient. For some days the needle had been over in the red, occasionally banging jerkily against the pin. Now the meter broke. From this moment on, he suspected, nothing would surprise him. He could no longer be outweirded. He was done. He was wrong, of course.
It was, he reflected, as he pulled back the bolts, almost comforting how many clichés already exist for people holding guns. It made Grahame Coats feel like one of a brotherhood: Bogart stood beside him, and Cagney, and all the people who shout at each other on COPS.
Daisy looked up at him with the kind of expression that Jesus might have given someone who had just explained that he was probably allergic to bread and fishes, so could He possibly do him a quick chicken salad: there was pity in that expression, along with almost infinite compassion.
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