Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman

I have a confession to make: I did not love Norse mythology growing up. In fact I was only dimly aware of its existence. 

I loved Greek mythology, which I read in turn to my kid. And I picked up various fictional-world mythologies via osmosis, by reading things like the Lord of the Rings trilogy and playing role-playing games, like RuneQuest, that were set in richly-detailed worlds. (Thank you, Greg Stafford, and may you rest in peace.) But for whatever reason, Norse mythology never really did much for me.

This was true even after reading American Gods, my second-least-favorite Neil Gaiman book (though I’m enjoying the hell out of the TV series), even though I pretty much love everything he writes. It was true even after watching some of the Marvel movies that include Thor and Loki because, well, of course those characters are only loosely based on their mythological prototypes. I wasn’t even inspired to learn much about it when I learned that the days of our week are named after Norse deities, or after getting a crow tattooed on my left shoulder--that was a crow, not a raven, and especially not Hugin or Munin.

But I do love most of Neil Gaiman’s work. Particularly when he goes off in a new direction--which he does often. (Though what you can really call a “new direction” for a writer who is a genre unto himself could be an interesting discussion.) Rewriting the Norse myths, bringing them alive for the modern age, struck me as the perfect job for a man of his background and peculiar talents. And I was right.

Gaiman’s gods have voices of their own. Voices, and faces, and gestures, and tastes in food and in women (and in some cases, in men and even in stallions), and, so help me, after reading this version of the Norse myths I feel like I could tell them apart by their body odor. These are manly myths about manly gods--Gaiman wasn’t making any effort to modernize these stories. The gods misbehave in all the expected ways: they drink too much, covet each other’s property too much, become violently peevish when things don’t go their way or they’re just bored. They aren’t role models.

What they are is vividly real, in this retelling, outsized technicolor warts and all. I don’t approve of them, and nor am I meant to. They’re gods, after all, and beyond a mere mortal’s approval or disapproval. They’re also fascinating to read about. Highly recommend.