I’d like to crawl inside Neil Gaiman’s head, just briefly, although I imagine it’s intense. I’d also like to do a Vulcan mind meld on some people, yet where would that lead, aside from the hollow paths of: interesting, boring, extreme, creepy? You’d still just be a visitor.
Gaiman has a remarkable ability to plop you inside his stories and against your better judgement you decide to stay to see how it ends.
The Ocean At The End Of The Lane is no exception. Like a worm that gets inside you, a feeling that scuttles through you, a scratching in the dark, this story and it’s inhabitants don’t give you answers, just a sensation of contentment and fear and something else you know you probably shouldn’t identify just yet, if ever.
As with all Gaiman’s work this ingeniously focuses on the imbalance of power, between adults and children, men and women, good and evil, right and wrong, man and nature, even between worlds.
I’ve already learned the most significant things I’ll ever learn in my entire life, I think, and Gaiman’s works always reinforce these, for me.
What we know is not nearly as important as what we don’t know.
We don’t need to know everything.
But what if we do?