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"I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled." -Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane |
One reason that it may be so easy to insert yourself into the book is because the narrator remains unnamed. Honestly, I didn't even notice that the narrator was nameless until I sat down to write this review. This literary style can often come across as unnecessary and confusing, but for The Ocean at the End of the Lane, it works.
The story begins with the narrator traveling to his childhood home, where he recalls the magical events of his childhood. His neighbors, the three Hempstock women, are not what they seem to be, and the young narrator quickly became entangled in their world, which can be both dark and beautiful. The villainous Ursula Monkton is reminiscent of the Other Mother from Gaiman's YA novel, Coraline, and is just as terrifying with her manipulative and other-worldly nature. This timeless being shows us that the monsters from our childhood can be just as frightening in our adulthood; maybe we never really stopped being afraid, for "Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world." Our childhood selves still exist inside of us, along with their childhood wishes and fears.
The characters in this story are brilliant. The Hempstocks in particular. Amid the chilling nightmarish scenes, the Hempstock women stand as pillars of comfort and safety. The supernatural seems natural, as if it is just resting below the surface, with the Hempstocks. The glimpses we receive into the Hempstock's world is breathtaking as well, and convince us that anything is possible if we just try a little harder, reach a little farther.
Gaiman delivers a hauntingly beautiful tale with The Ocean at the End of the Lane. It will stick with you long after you turn the last page, in part because it has always been with you.
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