I was going to make myself read the rest of my TBR pile for June before letting myself pick up this one. A sort of saving the best for last, having my cake, eating it, whatever. But when I picked up my copy, I saw how little it was, and I ran my fingers over the cover, and it was all pretty and soft and enticing, and I cracked it open.
Just to, you know, admire it.
So then I read that quote that authors put at the beginning of a book….and I was done. Sucked in. Taken away. I gobbled this book, slurped it down, nuzzled it, and then dreamt about it. Literally, I dreamt last night about how much I liked The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I was too tired to stay awake thinking it over, but my dream wasn’t a visit to the book. It was like my brain couldn’t shut its admiration down enough to just dream, but I was so tired from baby, that I couldn’t stay awake, so my dream compromised–oohing over the book while I slept. When I finally got up, I hunted my copy down, though I was running late, just to nuzzle it a little more.
I’m not going to try to recap or tell you what its about. But I will say I found it delightfully creepy, reminiscent and true of my childhood, and whimsical in the best of ways. And then it was just true at other parts. There were several points where I stopped, re-read a sentence and then shook my head with both awe and agreement. Gaiman is a master of craft.
That’s no surprise.
But to my surprise a book I thought I would enjoy became my favorite Gaiman. I already want to read it again, and I would suggest you give it a whirl.