A Brief and Vague Review of Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane
Sometimes in dreams, the places of my childhood have doors or hills that attach recurring, impossible additions to the settings of my early years. A door in the guest room that leads to a room that defies space, a raging river where hardly a stream trickled by. Upon waking, I am convinced that these places existed, and only through puzzling them out do I realize that they couldn’t have. The Ocean at the End of the Lane exists in this space.