Sometimes you pick up a book and become so entranced in its world that it’s heard to put it down. This happened to me with Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I started it around eight Tuesday morning and within twenty four hours was done. I devoured it. In retrospect, I should have spent more time on absorption; I am filled with the sense that I missed some of the book’s more subtle points, and there were quite a few. I tried to slow down several times and digest, but then I started reading again because I had to know what happened next. Gaiman’s story is less book than drug; once it gets into your system you are pulled ever downward into a fantastical dreamworld where nothing makes sense, but everything follows its own delightful dream logic.
Go read it.