AMERICAN GODS is one of those novels that is incredibly ambitious, but you don’t realize it until you are lost in the middle somewhere, the mundane world far behind, and your mind reeling. You have a hero named Shadow—in jail because he took the fall for a robbery that his wife was involved in. He’s just been doing his time, learning from his cell mate Low Key—waiting to get out and home. His wife is waiting. His job, working at a body building “farm” for his best friend—is waiting. Did I mention Shadow is huge?

A few days before he is to be released, Shadow gets a call to visit the warden, and from there—anything goes. Meet Mr. Wednesday, an enigma unto himself. Every character is a story, every story stretches back to the roots of our country—the very things that make America—well—American.

Ever wonder why you can’t seem to turn away from fifty signs that lead you to the world’s largest ball of string? Why is it not odd that you can drive through Illinois and make your way from Cairo to Paris in a couple of hours? What happens when you leave your homeland and go to a new world, but you still believe in the Gods you left behind? How do Leprechauns get their gold?

This isn’t a synopsis. I’m not going to give away the surprises and insights that make this a wonderful novel. It has Aristotle’s three parts—the conclusion of which is complete and satisfying. It has some romance, some magic, some philosophy—even some history. It has all the appeal of Kerouac’s On the Road—but with a major twist.

Don’t be surprised if you buy this, and then find yourself wanting to sit in the car JUST A LITTLE LONGER to hear what happens next. The narrator, George Guidall, comes off at first as maybe too old—maybe too quiet and reserved to narrate Neil Gaiman. Then, before you know it, you can see those characters talk—and the voices are distinct—clear and well-conceived. An amazing production of a wonderful novel. Go buy it.