Skip to main content

The Ocean At The End Of The Lane by Neil Gaiman

Before you start, read this disclaimer:

Fans of Neil Gaiman beware – I don’t tolerate you very well, despite counting myself amongst you. It’s nothing personal (about you – it’s very personal to me), and I believe it’s Neil’s own fault for being such a very good writer. Please read on through the fan-bashing to the bit about the book. Thank you.


An ocean in a bucket.
Neil Gaiman is an annoyance to me. I really (REALLY) liked American Gods but found that as soon as I mentioned this fact to anyone, I got one of two responses: nose-turned-up snobbery of the most scornful sort, or sickeningly gushing über-fanaticism, if that isn’t tautological. I don’t know which is worse. The snobs I can dismiss as most will be operating within the conceit that Gaiman is fantasy and therefore unworthy of further study or consideration – they are very unlikely to have ready anything by the author. The fans, though, start dribbling on and on about the time they met him in Bath Waterstone’s or how much better he is than the Latin American magic realists, or how his The Books of Magic comic book series (of course, they would confer upon them specious mythic value by using the disingenuous term graphic novels) pre-date the Harry Potter novels and you can clearly see the influence yaddah yaddah*. Regardless of which is most irksome, it has meant that when I do read Gaiman novels or kids’ books (mostly to my son it must be said – he loves The Wolves In The Walls) I do so in secret and would not normally tell anyone.

Clearly, that would not add particular value to a blog about books**. So, when I chanced upon this one languishing on the shelves of a Tenovus shop on Clifton Street, I thought I might be able to spare 99p to rescue it and give it an afternoon’s perusal with a view to a review***. And to be honest, an afternoon was all it lasted. Not in any very bad way (although perhaps I felt aggrieved that it was actually quite a short book), but rather in one of those “I’ve made a cup of tea to drink while reading which went stone cold because I didn’t look up again till the book was finished” kind-of ways.

If I were to put this into the context of his literary oeuvre it might not merit a very high comparative score out of ten, given I really (REALLY) like American Gods which would, for me, score the highest. However, on its own in the Young Adult crossover genre, it would probably blow the covers off the competition. I don’t want to give it all away with plot spoilers, but in essence, a man returns to the neighbourhood of his childhood home (which no longer exists) and relives some magical goings-on which he had forgotten about from when he was only a young boy, in the process revealing the forgotten minor but character-shaping traumas of childhood, the deep-seated longings and dashed dreams of all adult children. As with all his novels, the language is deceptively simple, toying with big ideas in the subtext, and haunted with grief and the bitter-sweet agony of a youth lost to the fog of memory. Yes, there’s magic in there, and yes, it’s all a little bit much for the true suspension of disbelief, but it is certainly a most engaging narrative. I pondered on the prevalence of Gaiman fans after I finished, and wondered if his books are pitched deliberately just on the YA side of adult so as to tap into the child in us all and thus come close enough to the common denominator (without touching) that his appeal is as broad as it can be, given the constraints on the genre. It might be so (hence the gut-churning reluctance to be accepted into fan club), but it might also be that he has tapped into something ubiquitous and universal, something to which I’m not able to put a name as yet, with filigreed tendrils in us all. Those who reject their touch are nature’s anti-bodies. Those who accept are hosts to something magical.


*Okay, so it’s clear the fans annoy me more. Of course, I don’t want to upset the simpering idiots so I hope they don’t know how to use footnotes.
**Other than to provide a handy hook upon which to hang a review, which is most useful.

Comments

How's about that then?

Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman

Argh, Neil Gaiman blah blah, waffle waffle, and so on.
There, that’s out of the way.
I can’t help but equate the resurgence in popularity of the Norse mythos, Icelandic sagas, and Skaldic and Eddic poetry in all their new televisual, literal and figurative forms, to the similarly resurgent popularity of comic-book- and super-heroes. In fact, they’re two sides of the same interrogative coin: one asks, “How did we get here?” whereas the other asks, “Who can save us?” for the world needs heroes, and people to blame.
I will leave it up to you to project your own personal Them into the nice Them-shaped gap that leaves behind.
You may think it very necessary and timely to have brought out such a book. Alternatively, you may be suffering from hero-fatigue and see it as all a bit unnecessary. Or you may have been seduced by the big hammer on the cover and the lovely tactile matt-finish cover. In any case and in my own humble opinion, other than talk William Warder Norton into springing for a lov…

High-Rise by J.G. Ballard

Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

I can hold nothing against or up to either Neil Gaiman or the late Terry Pratchett. In respect of their fans and their work, my problems are mine and mine alone. In general, both are of the highest standard. In context however, I can only judge Pratchett’s early work, such as TruckersThe Carpet People (currently reading to my four-and-nine-tenths year old who is loving it) and The Light Fantastic etc. (all of which I enjoyed as a very young teenager). Post-Carpe Jugulum I have read exactly diddly squat, and the stage plays and TV adaptations have passed me by without so much as a flicker of interest. Whereas Gaiman continues to intrigue, chipping away at my natural scepticism with his charm and wit and style and great children’s books, and I did enjoy Stardust the movie, for the most part because of Robert De Niro, and also in spite of Ricky Gervais. Of course, were they to collaborate on a novel (not De Niro and Gervais; that would be one to avoid), then I would expect the world to…