Neil Gaiman’s American Gods is sprawling yet intimate, grounded yet surreal, and it somehow manages to juggle mythological grandeur with the mundane strangeness of roadside America. I loved every second of it.

At its core, the book is a road trip through the hidden corners of the U.S., but it’s also a meditation on belief, identity, and the messy collision between old and new. Gaiman introduces us to a pantheon of forgotten gods, each brought to life with such specificity that you feel like you’ve met them at a dive bar in the middle of nowhere. And Shadow, the quiet, weary protagonist, serves as the perfect lens for exploring this world; a man caught between fate and free will, ancient magic and modern chaos.

What really struck me was how effortlessly Gaiman blends folklore with Americana. The juxtaposition of mythical beings with gas stations and motels feels so natural, it’s like they’ve always been there, hiding in plain sight. It’s a love letter to the weird, the sacred, and the forgotten parts of our cultural tapestry.

The book also isn’t afraid to linger in ambiguity, which I adored. It doesn’t spoon-feed answers or tie everything up in a neat bow. Instead, it invites you to sit with the mystery, to think about what we worship and why. It’s clever without being pretentious, and its darker moments never feel gratuitous… they’re purposeful and sharp.

If you like stories that challenge the boundaries of genre, that make you question what’s real and what’s imagined, American Gods is a must-read. It’s epic, eerie, and unforgettable; a true a modern myth in its own right.