As school is about to start again in my neck of the woods, and bring with it all the hectic of managing the schedules, classwork, and homework of my four, I decided this weekend would be for reading.
I plucked The Ocean at the End of the Lane from my stack and curled up, not sure what to expect–but hoping to be drawn in–if my experience with Gaiman coupled with the jacket blurbs were any indication.
I wasn’t misled.
How to describe the experience of reading this little book? As usual, Gaiman’s ability to build a world around you word by word is a gift. But this isn’t like other stories.
I found The Ocean at the End of the Lane to be enchanting in its creepiness. Real in that I was right there, next to the boy through it all, the other party in the story. Petrified and frozen, and running, and worried and waiting.
I saw it all. And it was scary.
Scary to the depth of my core in the way that a fairy tale can be when you hear it as an adult and realize it should have never been told to a young child.
At times, I wanted to peel the page forward for a tiny peek. To make sure that everything worked out for the poor boy, and for Lettie, and the women at the Hempstock farm. To make sure the horrors would be relegated back to figments… because they were imagined, right?
Don’t pick up this book unless you have a few hours to disappear through the wormhole. But if you do, by all means… let me know how you feel when you get back. I’m still trying to shake it off.
Purchase, read reviews and watch a video… here.