Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I hate Neil Gaiman. I hate him in the way I hate le Guin or Moorcock or Rothfuss or Faulkner or de Maupassant or PKD or Gibson...
The list goes on.
Hell, let's throw Vonnegut in there. Tolkien too. Ovid and Homer, for a little spice.
I hate them all, but Gaiman probably brings out the worst of my depression and envy.
I mean, the guy has his missteps, for sure. Sometimes he plays his hand at the end and lets us know too much, but...I mean, come on.
First of all, he's well read. Really well read. And my God can he play with myths. He's built his career on allusion.
Post-Modernism sure is cool.
He also married Amanda Palmer. So he's smart as hell, right. Good.
And, worst of all, he's the writer I wish I could be.
Joss Whedon too. I hate that guy.
I don't really have a review. I mean, what should I say? Gaiman is a damned genius. Moorcock even thinks so.
This book, like so many of his other books, is amazing. It is witty and beautiful and strange and dark. It has an effervescence to it. It's magical.
The worst is, Anansi Boys is funny. Real funny.
So, Gaiman can do anything. He continues to prove that.
So, go buy this book. Read it. Tell friends to buy it or loan it to them. Then read the rest of Gaiman's work and realize that writing is pointless. There is enough good out there to beat out the bad because the good is so much more powerful.
Peak. Did I mention him? Screw that guy too.
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