Swimming…

by missmaudy

There’s something about Neil Gaiman. His writing style is – well – peculiar. Everything that happens in his books could well be happening in the next street of you know where to look. But at the same time, it’s so fantastical that it couldn’t possibly be real, except, you know that chap down the end of the street? Doesn’t he look, you know, just a little… Different? Not quite human? Not quite there? And his books elicit emotions that you don’t expect. (Before I read Coraline, I would have sworn on a stack of dictionaries that I had absolutely no abandonment issues. None what so ever. Afterwards, I wasn’t really sure. And the book had to leave my house. Quickly. I sent it to a friend, cannot ever countenance it returning to my house, or even seeing the film)

Actually, abandonment seems to be an undercurrent through a lot of Mr Gaiman’s books, and The Ocean at the End of the Lane is no exception. Except that the abandonment isn’t as out there as in Coraline, and instead of feeling disturbed at the end of the book, I finished it with a smile and a sigh. It was absolutely lovely. The protagonist is a seven year old boy, and while I’ve read reviews that the main character is a bit of a wuss, HE’S A SEVEN YEAR OLD BOY. And from my experience with seven year old boys… it’s a very accurate depiction. Half mummy’s boy, half rebel, half schemer with mischief on his mind. Their ears are mostly painted on,  and they’re emotional. Oh, the emotions of a seven year old. Everything is deeper and more epic than the most epic thing of all epicness. So when his mum goes back to work after taking in lodgers doesn’t work out as well as it could… It’s also about remembering things and how memories change, depending which side you’re looking from.

In summary. It’s lovely. Read it. And remember…

 

 

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