I just read Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane and it’s wonderfully done but I didn’t enjoy it. There’s a good chance you might, though.
Gaiman is one of the very few writers whose books I just go ahead and buy without waiting to read reviews or even sniffing the social-media fumes. This book won’t change that even though it made me unhappy.
Gaiman’s in good form, so the magic here is magical, the people are real (except for the ones that aren’t supposed to be), the monsters are monstrous, and the ambiance is intensely felt: You are there.
But I didn’t like it because it scared the hell out of me. The situation is just way too plausibly horrible, even if it involves an immortal intruder from outside our reality. I had to put the book down and go out on the back porch at one point, and nearly didn’t pick it up again.
But hold on; the horror involves a father and his 7-year-old and I’m one of those and have one of those. So it was right there in my gut, the fear and desperation of a kid finding a monster invading his family and sharing his life. But for people not quite so close to the situation, it might just be pleasantly thrilling.
Ewwww. But really, really well-done. Lighten up next time please, Mr G.