The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman
A book review. Sort of.
As a precursor to this review, I must, in all fairness, declare first that I do not promise to be impartial. There is very little of Gaiman’s work that has the potential to displease me in any way; in other words, I am an ardent fan.
Gaiman has written a lot of children’s books; he has also written books with children in them- and there’s a difference. It’s not really a children’s book; nor is it an adult novel. Neither and both, really. It strikes a fine balance between the two, and can be read by just about anyone who reads. It’s a short read, about half as big as American Gods, but boy, it’s an enjoyable one.
The Ocean at the End of the Lane is, put simply, the most focused and controlled piece of work ever written by Gaiman. Inspired by memories from his own childhood, the book deals with a man sitting on a bench, revisiting an episode from when he was seven years old. I can see how that might sound drab, but revealing more about the story would probably hamper the reading experience.
A better idea, instead, would be to highlight Gaiman’s ability to subtly incorporate powerful themes like perceptive differences between children and adults, ruin through money, and the dubiety of memories themselves. And of course, the most important one - enjoyment in the little nuances of life.
As the narrator recounts the things that mattered to him at the age of seven, like the yellow basin in his room that was just the right size, and enjoying delicious custard pudding despite knowing he might soon be dead — he states, and I quote (the only quote, I assure you):
I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled.
There is hypnotic power in Gaiman’s simple words; and as you read them, what the narrator holds dear becomes dear to you as well. The elements of innocence and reluctance run strong throughout too — for instance, the child knows that trying to explain some wild-sounding theory to an adult is futile, and so does not bother trying.
The pace is set well, and the true beauty of this book lies in the unhurried manner that the plot unfolds in. Gaiman’s clear, succinct style hits home yet again. Also, mentally attaching his voice to the narration makes it a delightful experience, and you can truly see the world through the eyes of a child again.
The only qualm I had with this book was that it was a bit too short; but it did originate as a short story which turned into a novella, and anything longer might have ruined it. A story is the size it is, right?
I know there are a few people who find Gaiman’s work plain and ordinary at times, and this book will mostly not change that opinion; it is very much classic Gaiman, and will only make your current opinion of his writing stronger — that swings both ways. Having said that, I would still recommend this book to everyone, simply because it is a story that deserves to be told.
