The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman
181 pages
Published 2013
Read from August 21 to August 22
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
An ancient anthology I found in some dusty used bookshop in bygone times -- Best SF: 1967, edited by Harry Harrison and Brian W. Aldiss, one of the very few mementos I have of my childhood -- praises Harlan Ellison as "the only author who can write prose in a top-of-the-lungs shout." Never mind that barely fifty pages earlier the editors complain that "most SF stories are written with a sustained shout" -- when the figure of speech applies to Ellison, clearly Harrison and Aldiss mean it as a compliment. The Ocean at the End of the Lane is written with what I would peg as a sustained polite murmur. The tone fits the character and the dreamy recollection of his past supernatural traumas, but one can't help but wonder if a livelier or more poetic style might have elevated this charming, creeping tale into a position above merely "very good."
One could also argue, wryly, that End of the Lane conforms to the standard Gaiman setup: a useless lump of a boy fetches into supernatural trouble, thanks to the workings of a wiser, more confident girl figure, who helps guide him through the ensuing strangeness. But as the boy in question is 7, I'm willing to cut Gaiman some slack on his uselessness and dependency, and this time it's the girl who saves the day in the end, rather than the boy arbitrarily clicking into Hero Mode.
Lane actually falls closer to Gaiman's young adult (or juvenile reader) works in tone and construction, seeming to me a kiddie book that grew unexpectedly dark and body horror-ish and so got tapped for the grown-up imprint. Lane was excellent, overall, but it would be nice if Gaiman, someday, wrote another novel that felt intended for grownups.
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