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A review by inhonoredglory
The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman
5.0
Third Reading (2022)
I didn't audiobook this one for my third re-read, and somehow the imagery really hit me this time. I sobbed viciously at Lettie's ocean, the glowing glory of her, still holding the narrator's hand, awash in the knowledge of everything and knowing that she'd give all of that up, all that knowing, so she could be human and all the wonder and weakness and beauty and feeling that being human entails. And then there's the layered power of what Ursula symbolizes, the complex mess of adulthood, of wanting to get what makes you happy, even if it means it will destroy your heart. But to interpret the imagery like that makes it too simple, too easily-grasped, and there's so much more happening. This quote, the darkness of the adult's world, of that desperate and dangerous slope of wanting, hit me, and made me realize there's so much more going on in this book than I took it for.
First Read (2019)
There's something especially magical about this book. I came into it thinking it was a "grown-up" story, like American Gods or Sandman, given (well) the cover image and all the hype about it being Gaiman's masterwork. But really, like it says so insightfully in its pages, "Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world." It's the story of a memory, a boy who touches the face what's behind the world, through the tutelage of three (ostensibly) farm women at the end of the lane. It crawls up on you slowly, the Gaiman-esque fantasy of this book. Not so much fantasy, but a gentle affirmation of the magic inherent in the earth and in the vastness of creation—an undefined, uncatalogued affirmation that there are things out there long forgotten, a vast world much bigger than our limited minds can imagine. And Gaiman is a sort of guide, not telling us what is out there, or who, just that it's there, something, and we don't need to really know everything or remember everything, but just know that it's there, out there and inside of us. Myths aren't "adult stories and they [aren't] children stories. They were better than than that. They just were." And that's what makes Gaiman's works so wonderful, because like myths, they just are. And they're wonderful.
I didn't audiobook this one for my third re-read, and somehow the imagery really hit me this time. I sobbed viciously at Lettie's ocean, the glowing glory of her, still holding the narrator's hand, awash in the knowledge of everything and knowing that she'd give all of that up, all that knowing, so she could be human and all the wonder and weakness and beauty and feeling that being human entails. And then there's the layered power of what Ursula symbolizes, the complex mess of adulthood, of wanting to get what makes you happy, even if it means it will destroy your heart. But to interpret the imagery like that makes it too simple, too easily-grasped, and there's so much more happening. This quote, the darkness of the adult's world, of that desperate and dangerous slope of wanting, hit me, and made me realize there's so much more going on in this book than I took it for.
How can you be happy in this world? You have a hole in your heart. You have a gateway inside you to lands beyond the world you know. They will call you, as you grow. There will never be a time when you forget them, when you are not, in your heart, questing after something you cannot have, something you cannot even properly imagine, the lack of which will spoil your sleep and your day and your life, until you close your eyes for the final time, until your loved ones give you poison and sell you to anatomy, and even then you will die with a hole inside you, and you will wail and curse at a life ill-lived.
First Read (2019)
There's something especially magical about this book. I came into it thinking it was a "grown-up" story, like American Gods or Sandman, given (well) the cover image and all the hype about it being Gaiman's masterwork. But really, like it says so insightfully in its pages, "Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world." It's the story of a memory, a boy who touches the face what's behind the world, through the tutelage of three (ostensibly) farm women at the end of the lane. It crawls up on you slowly, the Gaiman-esque fantasy of this book. Not so much fantasy, but a gentle affirmation of the magic inherent in the earth and in the vastness of creation—an undefined, uncatalogued affirmation that there are things out there long forgotten, a vast world much bigger than our limited minds can imagine. And Gaiman is a sort of guide, not telling us what is out there, or who, just that it's there, something, and we don't need to really know everything or remember everything, but just know that it's there, out there and inside of us. Myths aren't "adult stories and they [aren't] children stories. They were better than than that. They just were." And that's what makes Gaiman's works so wonderful, because like myths, they just are. And they're wonderful.