I’ll preface my review like this: I hate fantasy. Truly, it is not my cup of tea. And honestly, my hatred for fantasy definitely corrupts some of feelings for this book. Namely, the mythology. The mythology is, I’m sure, brilliant, funny, and masterfully crafted- if you aren’t me, of course. But man, I don’t care about Neil Gaiman explaining to me in his funny English ways different ancient gods and whatever. The “realism” in this book’s magical realism is far more enjoyable. If Gaiman did literary fiction, he’d easily be among my favorite authors. While probably the least American author ever, it seems he really does “get” America from his descriptions of the middle of nowhere, motels, roadside attractions, and small towns. His attempt to tap into his inner Kerouac/Thompson is fortunately not spoiled by what I was predicting would be a boring Marvelesque fight scene towards its end (subverted! But around the late 400s I was really starting to get worried). I think this book is pretty enjoyable and never does Gaiman’s humor just feel meanspirited and cynical. Not my favorite book, albeit, that’s because of fantasy itself, not Gaiman being a terrible author or something.