It's frustrating that this book is so good. 
 On the surface, the central conceit seems too simple. An ex-con travels across the country with a down-on-his-luck Odin, visiting old gods as a conflict builds in the background. The narrative is a road show, our protagonist going from picturesque encounter to picturesque encounter, and at times we are treated to an entire chapters dedicated to characters from different time periods, solely for the purpose of expanding the word. 
 Centuries after Neil Gaiman's bones are dust, there may yet be born the next writer who could take this kind of framework and make it work so well, but even the gods would have become tired of waiting by that point. 
 It's brilliant. It walks from topic to topic, pantheon to pantheon, like a divine incarnation of This American Life. You could almost think that it's random. 
 You'd be wrong. 
 Gaiman's firm hand is on the rudder, and he knows exactly where he wants you to go. Every sight, every errant joke and cameo creates the image that Gaiman wants to tell, and it builds up brilliantly. 
 Yet the greatest achievement that Gaiman earns, greater than all of the implied stories he lets fester in your head or the gleams of mythology, is that you care about so many characters in this crazy ensemble. 
 I reread this on a Goodreads group book swap, and I definitely got more out of it now than I did when I was twenty-one. I should do this again, every ten years or so. It's possible that I'll only truly understand the gods when I'm a sarcastic bastard in a retirement home. 
 Starz better not screw this up.