On the fringes of a day mostly devoted to keeping M going on a tough after-chemo day and writing a graduate exam, I finished my first book of 2007, Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. I was emotionally drawn in, found some interest in the plot twists and turns, and occasionally admired the imaginery (why is this fusion of “imagination” and “scenery” not a word?). Yet I suspect this won’t be in my list of memorable books at the end of the year. It was like this with Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell a couple of years ago. I was drawn in by the mystery, but never really inhabited the author’s creation. It may simply be that works in the general category of thrillers/horror stories, however good, trip off some wire inside my head so I can’t really get into them.