Here's the premise: a mythological creature, head of a bull, body of a man, works as a line cook in a steakhouse in rural North Carolina and nobody much notices! A real Minotaur! Horns and everything, okay I'll have the prime rib. Sherril makes us accept that suspension of disbelief, telling a story where impossibility intrudes on reality with hardly a ripple. The Minotaur is always The Minotaur, with the capital letters and rarely a pronoun, and the constant repetition of "The Minotaur" is almost hypnotic. The Minotaur lives in a trailer park, fixes cars and falls in love with the epileptic waitress. We never find out how he got here from Crete, but we don't mind because this is clearly where he belongs, just as every other place he's been is where he belongs. He remembers devouring virgins and youths but hasn't the energy to get into that these days, and he prefers onions anyway. It's a story about the downside of immortality
Holter Graham perfectly captures the speech of The Minotaur, a series of modified bovine grunts. He weaves the rest of the story in almost dreamlike cadences, giving the characters the voices that are different, and not strained.
This book was picked by Neil Gaiman, and it's not hard to see why. Gaiman's entire ouvre is more or less about the collision of myth and reality, and when you've read everything he's written, a good way to get over the annoyance that he hasn't written more is to read things he likes.
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