"The Ocean at the End of the Lane"

I just finished "The Ocean at the End of the Lane" by Neil Gaiman. It was book number 25 of my goal of 26 to read this calendar year. I'm so close to my goal! At this point, I'm hoping to actually reach 27 or 28 books for the year, but we'll see. I still haven't chosen what I'm going to read for book 26, and since I have so much time, I think I'm going to choose a longer book from my list.

Anyway, back to the important part: my review of this delightful novel.

I've read a fair amount of Mr. Gaiman's prose but not nearly enough. Like everything he's written that I have read, the story lies in the in-between of folk tales and reality and the suggest to the reader the delight of the unknown mundane. "The Ocean at the End of the Lane," without giving too much away, reminds us our memories are necessarily filtered through our experiences and our present worldview. How do we know that our memories are true? When we walk a familiar path, do we know how many times we've walked it before?

It's impossible (isn't it?) to adequately describe the books that truly consume us as we consume them. Suffice it to say that I loved this one, and it's something I know I'll read again and again. If you haven't read it, you should immediately reserve it from the library (as I did) or purchase a copy or borrow it from a friend, make yourself some tea or coffee or cocoa, curl up in bed or in a large, comfortable chair, let a cat or two curl up with you, and begin to read. Mr. Gaiman, in the way of Maurice Sendak, charges us to remember the dangers and horrors of childhood along with the magic. While it is just as scary and dangerous as our own world, I want to live in Mr. Gaiman's worlds.