The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman
Some books are ponds. This one’s an ocean.
Do you ever listen to music from decades past and wonder what made that music so special that it had endured while other artists didn’t? And then you have to wonder what music from today will people still be listening to 50 years from now. 100 years from now? Elvis and The Beatles made it. Michael Jackson will. Taylor Swift? Probably. One Direction? I hope not, but hard to tell.
Books are the same. The ones that have endured we call Classics. The ones that haven’t endured aren’t called anything. What books of today will be the Classics of tomorrow? Stephen King? J.K. Rowling? John Irving? For sure, they’ve already made it. Terry Prachett? Richard Adams? Orson Scott Card? Probably. E.L. James? Stephenie Meyer? I sure hope not.
I bet Neil Gaiman will be there.
What a talent. His books are always predictably un-predictable–and that’s exactly what this reader wants. The Ocean at the End of the Lane did not disappoint. From begging to end, it shows off everything good about a Neil Gaiman story. It’s a modern-day fairy tale that’s just creepy enough to be scary and just scary enough to be fun. Is there a lesson to be learned? Probably, but don’t ask me to tell you what it is. This isn’t Lit class, I’m just here for the escape.
Hopefully for many, many years to come.