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There was a girl, and her uncle sold her, wrote Mr Ibis in his perfect copper-plate handwriting.
That is the tale; the rest is detail.
There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to others’ pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but, for the most part, it does not touch is. We cannot allow it to.[1]

Incidentally, is his new one worth a read? I love AG, but couldn’t really get into Anansi Boys for some reason. I also really wanted to love Good Omens, but for all its hilarious quotes (which actually makes it perfect for this blog, come to think of it…) in the end it fell short for me. I don’t know, maybe that one was on Pratchett ^_^
In other news, I just found out there might be an AG TV series heading our way. Wonderful or disastrous? It’s HBO, so I’m hopeful. Ah well, if that won’t work out, there’s always the sequel to look forward to (talk about high expectations!).


[1] Neil Gaiman, American Gods (2001; London, 2005), 345. Note: it’s the long-ass, so-called “author’s preferred text”